


l'amitié

by alwaysbuddy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Formula 1 Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Graphic descriptions of injury, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury Recovery, Internal Conflict, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Near Death Experiences, Pining, Racing Accidents, Rush (2013) AU, Self-Acceptance, Slow Build, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbuddy/pseuds/alwaysbuddy
Summary: Formula 1/Rush!AU. Some things are worth more than the thrill of the chase.





	l'amitié

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'd always wanted to write a Rush!AU for one of my fandoms, and never found the motivation to, until [Reel 1988](http://reel-1988.livejournal.com) came along, and I thought, "Shit, that's perfect, let me just sign up for this and I can finally do the thing, since I've never written a Hockey RPF fic before!" And then all these words happened. 
> 
> If you're familiar with the movie, or you know Niki Lauda and James Hunt's stories, then you'll probably be aware of some events that will happen throughout this. I borrowed pretty heavily from the movie and real events, some lines of dialogue included, but there are changes. And all the drivers have hockey player names, just because I could. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd. Also, I'm no technical or medical expert, so a lot of creative liberties have been taken. And part of this was written while I was drunk-watching/redditing/crying over the Hawks-Preds series, so... thank you to my t-list for patiently ignoring all my tweets about this fic. 
> 
> And, early disclaimer: I'm absolutely a Ferrari fan, but I've made 'em out to be a bit of the bad guy in here for story's sake. Sorry, not sorry.

 

 

 

**_Mount Fuji, Japan; 1976_ **

There is a choice.

He stands just within the entrance of the garage, quiet and unassuming, like one of those lost moments in time stretching out endlessly. Around him, the movement is almost stifling, bodies hurriedly manoeuvering around equipment, crates, other bodies, him. It sounds almost metallic, the rain, falling from the gray skies in heavy rushes, clattering off aluminum roofs and pattering down the sides of buildings and off the raincoats of the crowds in the stands.

Somebody calls, nearby, “Start engines in five minutes!”

 _I can’t,_ he thinks, a little wildly, and then, _but I have to._

“You good to go?” One of his mechanics comes up to him, and presses his helmet into his hands. He nods, absently grasping at the familiarity his helmet grants him, just to give his hands something to do, eyes still focused on something that isn’t his mechanic, or the crowds, or the track itself.

Across the paddock, three garages and a world’s length away, Patrick meets his eyes, expression encased by his helmet, hidden and unknown.

There’s something quiet in his gaze, despite the roar of the rain, the crackle-snap of thunder above them. Patrick lifts a hand, and curls his fingers into a fist.

Jonny breathes in, and the sharp acrid smell of tar and smoke and rain fills his lungs. It floods his senses for a long moment, threatens to overwhelm him completely, but he exhales, lifts his own hand, and repeats the motion shakily, breath catching when the smell of smoke turns into the taste of fire, and then the slick draw of blood.

The bite of his fingernails into the skin of his palm is sudden and painful, enough to jolt him out of the memory, and he’s brought back to reality, a world where fools attempt to conquer monsters and mountains for glory, a world he’s decided he belongs to, and he wonders, _is this worth it?_

He’s still watching when Patrick brings his fist down, and taps his helmet with his knuckles once, just briefly, over where his mouth would be. His eyes don’t leave Jonny’s.

Jonny lowers his arm, but instead of echoing the gesture, he presses his bandaged hand to his chest, over the logo stitched into the fabric of his race-suit, and holds it there, until Patrick’s arm falls to his side, until his mechanics are calling for him repeatedly, until the point where even his helmet doesn’t hide what’s showing across his face with excruciating clarity.

Patrick finally nods, turning away to face his mechanics after a last look over at Jonny. He snaps his visor down over his eyes, and steps into his car, ready to conquer all, one last time.

There is _always_ a choice.

Jonny breathes, puts his helmet on, and the sound of the rain falls away.

 

 

**_Crystal Palace, England; 1971_ **

The ground is damp with early morning drizzle. Jonny makes his way around several puddles as he tracks across the lot full of tents, parked cars, and a few people, still barely awake, who are shaking the water out of their hair. He’s feeling wide-eyed and ready to go, though, almost vibrating with nervous energy after yesterday’s excellent run.

He’d done a neat 0:38:41 yesterday, only a fraction of a second off the top, but he knows that the March can do better in damper conditions compared to the Lotus, and yesterday the track had been just as dry as it had been two weeks ago in Spain, where the last round had just taken place.

It’s a small circuit in size compared to other tracks on the racing calendar, just as small as some of the tracks he’d driven back in Québec and Ontario. But five years ago, he hadn’t been racing alongside legends, and legends in the making. Now, he’s got his own chance to make a name for himself.

Today matters, he knows, much more than in Jarama, more than Hockenheim, more than Thruxton. Today, real Formula 1 teams will be setting their sights on the drivers who make their mark on the Crystal Palace circuit, and Jonny didn’t come all the way here to not be one of them.

Jonny wanders past a stall advertising Gold Leaf merchandise, smiles at the girl manning the store, and declines the offer of a cigarette from a man with the logo plastered across the chest of his shirt, who comments, “You are with the Americans, no? I see you have new driver, he is good.”

“I’m not with the Americans,” Jonny says, only bristling a little, because he’s gotten used to people lumping him in with those from across the border ever since arriving in Europe. “I’m Canadian.”

“Oh, Canada, yes!” The man nods, and presses on, “Then it is better you watch out for the new American. He is fast.”

“Probably not as fast as I am,” Jonny counters, and the man grins, enthused by his attitude, and sends him off with a free cap, that he lets hang from his fingers as he continues his walk to his garage, only distantly considering the man’s words.

New driver, huh? Out of, what, twenty other rookies? Nothing Jonny needs to keep an eye out for just yet. He’s got bigger competition to look out for: namely, the Lotus drivers, the Brabham guys, and his own fellow March drivers, whom he’d just edged past yesterday during the qualifying heats.

The March Engineering team has been installed across the section closest to the track, with its own gate leading to the camping grounds. Jonny likes it, because it means that he can wake up at five in the morning and head straight over, not needing to bother about getting somebody to open the main gate.

“Hey,” he calls out, finding the trailer door already pushed up, a figure leaning over the bench in the back. “Catch.”

The hat gets tossed over, and hits Seabs squarely in the chest. “You know,” he remarks, watching Jonny pull back the cover on his car, “I’m not here to be paid in hats.”

“I’m not the one paying you, so take it or leave it.”

Seabs puts the hat on, and snorts. “It’s too early for your wise-cracking.”

Jonny chooses to ignore that, and gets down to inspect the front wing at a better angle, running a finger along the edge of the small side flap. “Did you make the changes like I said to?”

“I did,” Seabs says, stepping closer to tap his wrench against one of the wheels lightly. “Adjusted the ride height like you wanted. But I was talking to some of the other mechanics last night and none of their guys wanted a wet setup.”

Jonny just hums, pleased by this information, and he brushes a hand across the painted number ‘19’ on the front of the bright blue car. “I’m going to do 0:44s today.”

“Toews,” Seabs says, long-suffering, “You know the wet track record is a 0:45. I don’t need to tell you that, you should know this already.”

“The setup wasn’t perfect yesterday.” Jonny pulls the cover back over the car. “It will be today. We’re getting that podium _today.”_

“You don’t even know if it’s going to rain again later.”

“It doesn’t have to. It’s wet enough that the track’s not going to dry up till evening.” Jonny gives him a look. “Was I wrong in Germany? Or in Spain, about the Lotuses?”

Seabs pauses, and then sighs. “No. Fine. Fuck you, Toews. _I’m_ supposed to be the mechanic here.”

“Fuck you too, Seabrook,” Jonny says amiably. “I’m heading out to the track. Be back in a bit.”

 

 

He walks the track, before every race. He’s not the only one; other drivers do it too, to scout out the track conditions, to see what the weather forecast can’t tell you about the ground, to feel beneath your feet the very same thing your tires will feel later.

By the time he’s walked halfway around, he knows he’s right. He’s going to win this race.

He’s going to do it, and everyone will know that this is it, for him. This _is_ him.

 _Even if they tell me it isn’t,_ he thinks, and he presses the toe of his shoe into the dirt, feeling the dampness in the soil, feeling the anxious energy that’s crackling in his bones.

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Formula 3 race at Crystal Palace!” The voice is muffled over the loudspeakers, but Jonny can still hear the announcer even over the sound of cars starting up, and people calling instructions from the garages. “A truly wonderful circuit, and a challenging one, at that. We will begin in ten minutes, so do get to your seats in time, and sit tight for an entertaining ride this afternoon.”

Jonny pulls his helmet and eye-gear over his head, and steps into his car.

Seabs gives him a thumbs-up and a nod, and Jonny rolls away to his position at the start/finish line.

Cars of different makes and colours line the grid as ten minutes tick past. The air feels thick with smoke and noise and anticipation, and Jonny drinks it in, lets it fill him up. It settles something inside him, just a tiny something, and he curls his fingers around his steering wheel, ready for what’s to come.

_Three—_

A flag rises, six positions ahead of Jonny.

_Two—_

He breathes out.

_One._

The flag falls.

Jonny slams his foot down, just as twenty other cars do the same, and the sound of roaring engines fills the air, along with a multitude of cheers.

_It’s time to go racing._

He spots his chance early, an opening between two Brabhams as they all rush down the beginning straight, and he swivels to the inside of both cars, cutting off both as he pushes hard to make it just ahead enough that he can take the inside of Ramp Bend, cutting off another car in the process.

Behind him, one car slides right off the track as they head into Anerley Ramp, and Jonny recalls the wet patch he’d walked around when he’d done his track walk in the early morning. That’s not going to be the only car ending up in the grass today, he knows.

He gets a good run up the next couple of corners, trying valiantly to beat the one March car ahead of him, and finally gets a shot when the cars go flying along the Glade, a long high-speed corner that lends Jonny enough momentum to pass the March on Park Curve.

It only takes him a single lap, and he’s already leapfrogged several cars to end up in first place. First place, and they’ve got laps and laps to go. As long as he can keep this pace, it looks like he’ll be good. He trusts the car, he knows it’s a solid piece of work, that Seabs has done everything in his power to make sure the car is just as reliable as the rest of their challengers.

He’s got his shot, right now.

 

 

Thirty-four laps in, and halfway around the North Tower Crescent, one of the two cars that have been trailing closely behind him starts to pull ahead, just the slightest, and Jonny realizes as he’s glancing into his mirrors that one of the Lotus 69s is edging to take a bite out of his time.

The Lotus’ driver makes a few wild dashes for the spaces around Jonny as they speed through the New Link and back onto the Stadium Straight, and Jonny swears under his breath, having to pull a couple of last-second defensive moves in return to keep the Lotus from coming any closer.

 _What the fuck is his problem,_ Jonny thinks, as the Lotus attempts to go wheel-to-wheel with him, only pulling back when they hit a tight bend. They swerve again, nearly going off the track when the Lotus tries to overtake on the next corner. _Is he being fucking serious right now?_ An overtake on that corner probably would’ve pushed them both into the fencing.

The nervous energy has all but given way to irritation, that just grows once they hit the next straight. The Lotus is running a Cosworth engine, giving it just a bit more power than Jonny’s March on the straights with its BMW M12/2 under its frame, and it isn’t long before they’re properly wheel-to-wheel again, not just front-to-rear.

Jonny glances briefly over at the other driver, who glances back, face hidden by his helmet. He doesn’t recognise its colours.

They rush down the long stretch of track, closely matched, until a series of corners pops up, and the Lotus driver attempts to snatch the inside line from Jonny, edging past him, rear wheel by his side-pod now. Jonny holds position, firmly maintaining the line.

He should’ve seen it coming, though.

The next bend is too tight for the both of them hurtling towards it at this speed, and, obviously wanting to secure the racing line for himself with an overtake, the Lotus driver turns sharply, much sharper than Jonny had anticipated, and bumps wheels with Jonny.

Both their cars are thrown like discs, spinning off in uncontrollable circles. The March comes to a halt just under the hill, and before Jonny can react, the engine splutters, and dies with a loud snarl. “No, no,” Jonny mutters desperately, uselessly stepping on the pedals, but it refuses to budge. _“No!”_

He hears the sound of a car revving, and he turns to see the Lotus get back onto the track, and drive off, apparently unharmed or unnerved in any way.

Jonny stares, something angry and frustrated welling up in his chest as he watches the car speed off and around a corner, without a single care in the world for the fact that he’s just run Jonny off the road and destroyed his race.

He gets out of the car, legs a little unsteady, and he tugs his helmet, goggles and balaclava off to get some wind on his face. God. He rubs his hand over his face, still in disbelief that he’s just gotten shunted off, when he’d been in the lead and less than twenty laps away from an incredible win.

Jonny starts the trek back to the garages as the track-hands run over to get the car off the road, gripping his helmet tighter than necessary to keep from blowing his cool. Whoever that absolute fucking asshole had been, Jonny’s never going to forget him.

 

 

“Who the fuck was that?” Jonny grits out, the second he gets back to the trailer. “Who ran me off the fucking road?”

Seabs winces. “Stanton’s new boy. American driver. Apparently he’s got a reputation for that kind of thing. Kane the Pain, I’ve heard.”

Jonny throws his things into the trailer, and rubs his hand over his face, exhaling hard. “Goddammit,” he says, “I had it. I had that race.”

“That’s racing for you,” Seabs says.

“I had it,” Jonny mutters, stalking off to clear his head.

 

 

He’s small, blond, and smiles like he owns the entire paddock.

Not quite what Jonny had expected.

Jonny watches Patrick Kane, of the J&J Stanton team, lift his trophy high and wave at the people gathered around the podium. He’s soaking in the win. Grinning for the cameras. Gifting his winner’s garland to a dazzled girl with a wink and a promise for the night to come.

Another one of those, huh?

He hangs back as Kane jumps down and receives a enthusiastic slap on the back from an excitable kid loudly swearing up and down about the race, Kane’s team-mates seemingly having drifted off back to their trailer already. Kane says something to the kid, and the kid makes a face, before attempting to drag him away to where a group of people are standing.

“Hey,” Jonny says, before Kane can disappear out of his sight. Before he can get away with it. “Hey, _asshole.”_

The kid glances over, and Jonny jerks his chin towards Kane. The kid’s eyes widen, and he elbows Kane, who yelps, and turns around to see what the commotion is about, rubbing his side. “The fuck? What? You callin’ me?”

“Yeah, I’m calling you,” Jonny says, the fury rising swiftly back up now that he’s face-to-face with Kane. “What the fuck was that? That was my line. I had that corner.”

“You mean that corner you spun out on?” Kane’s smirk is infuriatingly haughty. Jonny already hates him. “I think that corner had you, pal.”

“That was total fucking suicide!” Jonny snaps, not caring that Kane’s team-mates are watching now, Kane’s friend looking like he wants to slip away silently before things can get worse. “What if I hadn’t hit the brakes in time? We would’ve crashed!”

“But we didn’t, did we?” Kane lifts an eyebrow, looking at Jonny like he’s the madman instead. “Fuck off, it’s just racing.”

“Fuck you,” Jonny retorts. “Asshole.”

“Hey, hey, the name’s Patrick Kane, okay?” Kane waves his ill-gotten trophy. “You might wanna remember that.”

Jonny doesn’t bother responding. He flips Kane off, and stalks back to his garage.

Behind him, he can hear Kane ask, “And who the hell was that?”

“Jonathan Toews, March,” someone answers, “Jesus Christ, Pat, really? You spun _Toews_ off? Good fuckin’ luck with the rest of the season.”

“Not a fuckin’ problem,” Kane answers, scoffing. Like Jonny’s not even worth his time. Not worth a single thought. Just a scrape in the bottom of the barrel of racing drivers.

Jonny doesn’t stick around to hear the rest.

 

 

**_Rome, Italy; 1971_ **

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah? You’re an asshole too, fuckface. Who nearly ran who off, this time?”

“I gave you more than enough fucking space to make your move, it’s not my fault you couldn’t do it!”

“Don’t tell me I can’t do shit, Toews, not when you’re squeezing cars off the fucking track.”

“Says the one person who never fails to spin somebody out every other goddamn race!”

Somebody taps Jonny on the shoulder. “Uh,” says a track marshal, and he’s motioning behind him with his thumb, looking wary at having to interrupt them mid-fight, _“la pressa_ is here?”

Both Jonny and Kane turn to glance across the track to where the barrier sets them apart from a waiting crowd, not just of fans but of media personnel, too. “Shit,” Jonny mutters, “forgot we were near the press enclosure.”

Kane snorts. “Can’t take the heat in public, Toews?”

Jonny flips him off. Kane does the same.

What follows is a flurry of camera flashes and loud clicks.

Jonny really isn’t looking forward to tomorrow’s newspapers.

“Hey,” Seabs says the next morning, holding up an Italian paper’s sport section with the words **‘KANE E TOEWS DI FORMULA 2: ACERRIMI RIVALI?’** accompanied by an unflattering photograph of Jonny looking flushed and murderous as Patrick sneers at him, their wrecked cars in the background. “At least it’s exposure. Play it up a bit, maybe you’ll get noticed a bit more because of him.”

“I don’t need Patrick Kane for anything,” Jonny says, still feeling slightly murderous after seeing that photograph of the scene again, and he pours a very angry cup of coffee, dumping in six sugars and stirring much too vigorously.

Seabs watches him in silence, before lifting the paper back up, sighing.

 

 

**_Mantorp, Sweden; 1971_ **

He gets the podium that he’d needed, boosting him into sixth place overall. With a couple more races, he could probably take fourth, and that would be considerable enough to get him a look at a Formula 1 test drive.

Second place feels even better, because he’d watched Kane eat his words as his car slowed down on the twentieth lap, and had to spend a good three minutes in the pits to get it fixed, before limping its way to fifteenth in the race rankings.

Kane had glared at Jonny as he’d walked past their trailer. It still hadn’t quite felt like victory, since Kane hadn’t actually managed to give Jonny a fair fight, but still.

It feels good.

Seabs had just sighed. “Someone’s going to end up breaking something sooner or later.”

“Breaking _someone,_ you mean,” somebody else comments.

Seabs sighs again. “That too.”

 

 

**_Monza, Italy; 1971_ **

Jonny doesn’t want to talk about Monza.

 

 

**_Götene, Sweden; 1971_ **

Kane’s had shit luck all weekend long.

Jonny had watched him set decent times with his initial laps in the first qualifying heat, noting the way he’d taken a few corners and reminding himself to review his own run against Kane’s once he’s gone.

But Kane had spun out on the third last corner of the circuit, just as he’d been on the verge of setting a well-paced lap, enough to kick him right into the top five of that group of drivers. It had been a driver error, no question. Kane had just dived into a corner too soon, skidded right off a slippery part of the track, and was unable to correct the understeer in time.

He’d ignored everyone as he returned to his trailer, even Jonny, though, that might have been because Jonny hadn’t gotten in his face the entire weekend. They’d been too preoccupied with their own business to even glance over at each other—and isn’t that something, that Jonny’s race weekends these days are so commonly punctuated by an argument with Kane that it’s odd to not have one, anymore.

The next morning, though, Jonny had risen early to see Kane stumbling out of his trailer after what had seemed like a ridiculously alcohol-ridden night. Jonny had lifted a hand in greeting, more amused than anything else by the way Kane’s hair was a tangled mess, and the way his sunglasses hung low off the tip of his pointed nose, and the way he’d squinted at Jonny as if he didn’t remember who Jonny was.

He’d then spent the rest of the morning perched on the barrier where the time-keepers were sat, watching the other drivers and their times.

Jonny takes part in the second heat, setting a quick lap to come in seventh on the grid. It’s good. It’s not great, though. He knows he still has some work to do, and he knows that he could’ve done better.

But when Jonny goes to get his times, Kane’s still there, glancing over everyone’s boards. He takes a look at Jonny, and hums. “Decent lap, Toews.”

Jonny looks back at him, unsure if Kane’s actually being genuine or not. “Thanks,” he says carefully, and Kane just goes back to making small-talk with one of the other drivers’ time-keepers.

Strange of him to say something nice, after what had happened the last time they made contact with each other. Jonny takes his times and goes. Strange, but alright of Kane.

 

 

**_Kent, England; 1971_ **

It’s not on either of them, this time.

Jonny’s aware that with this DNF, he’s effectively out of the running for fourth in the overall rankings, knowing that it’s firmly locked in for one of the British drivers to take now. So is Kane, though, and this time, Jonny doesn’t quite have anything to blame him for.

“We’ve had better days,” Kane calls glumly, watching Jonny give up on getting his car to start again. “Goddammit.”

Jonny trudges across the gravel to where Kane is leaning against the fence, arms crossed over his chest. His helmet is still on, but Jonny can see the defeat in his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jonny says, tugging his helmet and balaclava off, running a hand through his hair. “Wasn’t mine, either.”

“I know.” Kane takes his helmet off too, sighing. “Fuckin’ Torres. I’m gonna fuckin’ beat his ass when I see him later.”

They start to make their way back down the track. They’d crashed out pretty far from the start/finish line. It’s a rather long walk back to the pits. Some conversation wouldn’t be too terrible, at this point.

“Let me know when you find him,” Jonny adds, letting his sore feelings show, “I’m thinking of doing the same.”

“C’mon, Toews. You, fighting?” Kane tsks, glancing over at him with something akin to cheek. “He’d probably throw you down the second you walk up to him.”

“And you think you’ll do any better?”

“Didn’t say I was gonna do it alone.” Kane shakes his head. “Times like these, I sorta get why people are pissed off when I nudge past ‘em and make ‘em spin off.”

“Sorta?” Jonny snorts. “You’re an idiot.”

“Hey,” Kane says, only sounding slightly offended, “if you don’t go for a gap that exists, you’ll never be a proper racing driver, y’know.”

“Well, if not taking it means staying alive, I think I’d prefer to leave it, actually.”

Kane makes a face. “Then what are you racing for, if you’re not gonna take the risk?”

“I’m taking the risk. Of course I am. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be driving.” Jonny lets his helmet hang from his fingertips, swinging it a little, just to give his hands something to do. “But that’s enough of a risk, that 20%. I’ll accept that every time I get into a car, there’s a 20% chance that I could die. But not 1% more than that.”

Kane’s watching him with an unreadable expression. “That’s interesting,” he finally says. “I’d’ve though that the risk was what most drivers were here for. It’s a turn-on, isn’t it? Risking everything. Risking life and death.”

“I’m not most drivers.”

Kane actually chuckles at that. His helmet taps Jonny’s lightly as he swings it beside him, too. “That’s obvious enough, Toews.”

The conversation tapers off after that, and they reach the pits just as the race is coming to an end. Kane looks like he’s actually going to go look around for Torres now and drag him off to get his ass kicked, but before they part, Kane stops in his tracks, and says, “M’sorry for Crystal Palace, by the way.”

Jonny blinks. He’s never heard Kane apologise to anyone, for anything at all. “Thanks,” he says, just as suspiciously as when Kane had complimented his hot lap.

Kane looks relieved, though. Genuinely so, as if he had thought that Jonny wouldn’t accept his apology. “Alright, then. Next race, Toews. I’ll have you.”

“In your dreams, Kane.”

Kane waves him off, and Jonny returns to his team.

“Did… I just see you talking to Kane?” Seabs frowns, checking him over, as if he’s worried that Jonny might’ve sustained some sort of head injury. “Not… arguing? Is it Christmas?”

“Funny, Seabrook. We just talked. He apologised for Crystal Palace.”

Seabs does a double take. “Fucking hell,” he says, “that’s a first. Patrick Kane apologising for a shunt? It’s definitely Christmas, then.”

 

 

It’s strange, yet again. Jonny remembers a similarly strange feeling from Mantorp, how it was weird that they had gone a race weekend without fighting. It’s happened again, but this time, they’d actually been civil with each other.

It’s strange. But in a good way.

Jonny doesn’t quite mind it.

 

 

**_Le Sequestre, France; 1971_ **

September finds them cold and shivering, a biting autumnal wind accompanying them all the way from Austria to France. The teams continuing on to the next race part ways at the previous track, and hide out in train carriages and cars and trucks for the next week, pulling their coats around them and tucking scarves around hands and sharing cigarettes around the warmth of a lighter.

The March team had decided to let their guys fend for themselves, so Jonny finds himself in a beat-up Austin following their trailer, with Seabs napping most of the trip away in the back next to one of the other driver’s mechanics, and Seabs’ new apprentice that they’d picked up back in Kent dutifully driving them to their destination.

The heater in the car gives up on them halfway through the journey, and Jonny takes over from Brandon once he’d noticed the kid’s hands shaking from the cold. “Sleep it off,” he instructs, and Brandon gives him a grateful look, before sinking back into the passenger’s seat, Jonny’s borrowed scarlet scarf pulled up over his nose.

Not so great with the cold, then, Jonny thinks, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Seabs looks comfortable enough, and the other mechanic, Keith, has a red mark on his forehead from where he’s been slumped against the window in his sleep, but the kid’s from a warm place in the States, and it’s his first genuine road-trip with a racing team.

He’ll get used to it eventually.

Jonny doesn’t mind the cold himself; his childhood had been blustery Manitoba winters and he’s disregarded multiple layers on days out before. A little bit of fall weather in the French country-side won’t do him any harm.

Feels a little like home, almost. It’s not the same, definitely, France has a strange charm to it that gets subtly more and more different with each mile they drive, but the woods and the small, quaint roads they pass makes him recall his mother’s hometown.

They stop to ask for directions once, and it takes a moment for him to get back into his French, but he hears his _maman_ in the woman’s voice, and it warms him enough to last the rest of the trip, until they get to Le Sequestre, the cosy village nearest to the circuit.

Because of the distance, and the smaller scale of the Formula 2 race at Circuit d’Albi, there are much fewer teams around compared to the races in England, and everyone usually finds themselves putting up in the same lodgings, squeezed together into small rooms to cut back on costs.

They find a motel that doesn’t seem too crowded, and Jonny gets down first to find them a room while the team heads off to the track to sign the trailer in. A bell tinkles overhead as he enters the reception, and the first thing he hears is an almost thankful-sounding, “Hey, that one’s Canadian, isn’t he?”

Jonny zeroes in on the source of the voice, and it’s a disheveled-looking man, standing in a group of other similarly ragged-looking men. “Toews!” another one of them calls, and it’s only then that Jonny realizes it’s Ryan Suter, one of the Lotus drivers, and he seems to have herded all the Americans along with him. A few of the other Lotus guys, and a handful of mechanics. “Fucking godsend, I’ll tell you,” Suter says, waving Jonny over, “c’mon over, Toews.”

Jonny approaches them, duffel slung over his shoulder. “What’s the problem?” he asks, and he spies a mess of golden curls over someone’s shoulder, before Kane shuffles into view, looking a little peaky. Jonny nods at him, and receives a nod in return.

“Some sort of mix-up,” one of the guys that Jonny isn’t familiar with explains, “and the only person on shift doesn’t speak English.”

“There are eight of you here from different teams,” Jonny points out, eyebrow lifted, “you’re saying that _none_ of you know French?”

“Italian and English teams, dude,” Suter says, shrugging. “You mind having a word with her for us?”

Jonny nods dismissively, and heads over to solve their problems for them. He doesn’t mind.

And if he manages to get better rooms for his guys first, it’s not like they’ll know.

 _“Too many people in this one,”_ the woman, Claire, tells him, after a moment of frowning at his accent, _“may I move one of them to the one you’re in? You still have space.”_

Jonny glances over the guest check-in, and none of the names are familiar to him, barring Kane’s. _“That’s fine,”_ he answers, and he doesn’t see who she moves over, as he’s already turning back to the group, who look at him expectantly. “Everything’s sorted out. Only thing is, one of you will have to bunk in our room.”

“Thanks a bunch, Toews,” Suter says, before taking a glance at the revised list. “Pat. You’re staying with ‘em.”

Kane’s head shoots up from where he’d been inspecting the front of a newspaper on a coffee table. “What?”

“She picked,” Jonny just says, holding his hands up before anything can start. “You’re good with that, Kane?”

Kane stares for a moment, before nodding. “I’m good.”

“Good,” Jonny repeats. He bids farewell to the group, before checking his watch. It’s almost four in the afternoon. There won’t be much to do this week besides testing, practice, and fine-tuning. He can probably expect to be picked up in half an hour or so, to check out the circuit.

There’s a cough, and he turns to see Kane standing there awkwardly, the strap of his bag loosely fisted in his hand. The skin across his nose is flushed pink, probably because of the weather. “Well,” Kane starts, scuffing his shoe along the carpet, “I’ll follow you up? You’ve got the keys.”

“Oh. Yes, sorry,” Jonny stumbles, having almost completely forgotten that they’ve got an addition to their room now, and he motions for Kane to follow him to the door, and then the outdoor stairs. “You’re not staying with your team?” he asks, just to fill the silence as they climb.

“No,” Kane replies shortly, and that’s all he says.

Silence descends over them until they’ve reached the room. Jonny tosses him a key once they’ve set their things down. “There,” he says, “I’ll be off to the circuit in a while. Don’t let anyone else in here.”

Kane rolls his eyes. “Not gonna fuck up the room, if you’re so afraid of that happening.” He stretches out across the little couch that he’s laid claim to, shirt riding up a little as he lifts his arms. Jonny’s eyes follow the motion inadvertently. “So,” Kane says, quite cheerfully, “if you’re done being an asshole recently, wanna join the rest of us North American folk for a drink tonight?”

Jonny isn’t impressed. “Is that how you get people on your good side? You call them assholes in the middle of conversations?”

“No, I’m just telling the truth. And, hey, it’s really not like you’re not guilty of doing that either.” Kane’s gaze is challenging, but they’re not on track, and it feels more like banter than actual provocation. “You stick to yourself too much, Toews. Live a little. C’mon. One drink won’t kill you.”

He almost wants to defend himself, as if there’s anything to defend, really. He wants to say that he doesn’t stick to himself, he goes out with the engineers, and he brings a girl home once in a while. But the words stick in his throat, and Kane’s looking at him with something akin to hope, almost. As if he’s hoping Jonny will say yes.

“I really wouldn’t call our arguments ‘conversations,’ Kane.” Jonny huffs out a breath. “One drink.”

Kane’s grin is immediate, and almost blinding. It takes Jonny aback momentarily, and he doesn’t even know why. “Good man.”

 

 

He brings the others along with him, because he’s definitely not going to go alone, and they definitely seem like they’d appreciate some liquid warmth, and some conversation with people from home, as far away as it seems, right now.

Brandon is animated as they make their way down the main road to the pub that Kane had mentioned, the name of it scribbled on a small piece of paper that Jonny had picked off the desk when he’d returned from the track. His hands are flying about as he describes something to Seabs and Keith, and it makes him seem even younger than he is.

Jonny’s actually pretty sure that Brandon’s not old enough to drink yet. He does look vaguely sixteen or seventeen, but it’s not like anyone will care, really, especially not a bunch of racing drivers who drink like they have spare livers lying around.

The bar itself is small, but lively enough for a small-town establishment. There’s a bit of music coming from a piano in a corner, somebody playing what sounds like a Françoise Hardy number, but most of the sound is coming from the chatter and the laughter, amidst the clink of glass-on-glass.

They spot the group sitting at a large table, chairs packed together to make more space, and Keith is the first one over, cheerfully slapping someone on the shoulder, and Jonny just nods at everyone when they move to take their seats, too many unfamiliar faces to really be as casual. It’s mainly drivers, with a scattering of engineers in between them.

“Toews!” Kane slides a bottle over to him, and Jonny catches it before it can skid right off the edge of the table. He’s looking a lot less pale than before, face looking slightly flushed in the sunset-yellow lights. “You brought your guys!”

“Yes,” Jonny says, taking a moment to snap the cap off the bottle with the edge of the table. He takes a swig, aware of Kane still watching him from where he’s sitting across from him. It’s not bad, the French beer. It goes down his throat and settles warmly in his gut, and the first sip is enough to make him loosen up enough to inquire, “You didn’t bring yours?”

Kane’s face abruptly darkens. “As if I’d do anything with those pricks.”

“Whoa,” Seabs says, “that’s your team you’re talking about, there.”

“Exactly,” Kane utters, and he lifts his bottle to his lips, not meeting anyone’s eyes as he mutters, “only reason I’m stickin’ around is because it’s too much of a fuckin’ hassle to switch teams this late in the season.”

“It’s not that bad,” Pacioretty, one of the Lotus drivers, says, sympathetically. “The second your contract’s up with them, Penske’s gonna snap you up, aren’t they?”

Jonny had heard about Penske Racing wanting to start a team, looking for solid American drivers that they could back. It seems only fitting that they’d want to go for Kane, despite his off and on-track antics.

“Yeah, well.” Kane shakes his head. “Until then, it’s Stanton and their goddamned rules for the rest of the year.”

“I don’t get the animosity,” Brandon says from where he’s sitting beside Pacioretty, sounding confused, and everyone turns to him. It’s the first thing he’s said since they’ve gotten there. “Why’d you join ‘em if you don’t even like ‘em?”

Pacioretty laughs, and ruffles Brandon’s hair. “Oh, kid,” he says, amused, “you’re new, aren’t you? There’s a few things you’ve got to know about racing teams, and one of those things is that where money is involved, things can go sour very, _very_ fast.”

“They know Penske’s after him,” Jonny explains, connecting the dots pretty quickly, “and they don’t want him to go. But they can’t stop him, so they’re making it hell for him until he goes.”

“Right in one, Jonny-boy,” Suter declares, listening in from the other end of the table. “A real shame, too. Word gets around quick in the paddock. Nobody’s gonna want to drive for a team that’ll block ‘em from moving forward.”

“And my guys aren’t even _my guys,”_ Kane adds, scowling, “Stanton fired ‘em all.”

“Jesus,” Seabs says, frowning, “where’d they end up, then?”

Kane smirks. “Penske.”

Jonny laughs, and the the table’s occupants turn towards him. “Worked out after all, eh?” he says, and Kane grins at him, this wicked thing that seems only fitting in this moment.

“My God,” Suter says, “somebody got Toews to laugh. Ring the press!”

“Hey,” Jonny says indignantly, while the rest roar. “I’m not that fucking serious, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Seabs says, patting his shoulder, “not that much, Captain Serious.”

Jonny groans, and puts his face in his hands. That ridiculous name will never die, he despairs, and when he looks up, Kane actually looks surprised that he’s—what, got a personality? Knows how to laugh? Isn’t actually a machine?

“No,” Kane says, guffawing when Jonny lists the possibilities, “I’m surprised you’re not called Captain Yells-A-Lot instead, honestly. Captain Serious? Really?”

Jonny opens his mouth to retort, but Burns cuts in, “C’mon, Pat, you know the only person Toews yells at is you,” while nudging Kane in the side, “you’re special, don’t you know.”

“Jesus, you know the first time they really got into it with each other?” Pacioretty says, leaning in and grabbing everyone’s attention, and Jonny just glances at Kane, who looks just as disgruntled as he feels, “At Monza? Thought somebody was gonna get hit, there.”

“Oh, it was close,” Jonny finds himself expressing resentfully, remembering that race in Italy. Kane had swerved and cut him off too narrowly in the very beginning of the race, nearly causing him to smack right into the wheels of one of the Chevrons, and _Jonny’d_ gotten a penalty for running the guy off the road. “Asshole,” he says, directing that last bit at Kane, and Kane flips him off.

“Fuck you,” Kane says, but without any heat behind the words, really. “I had the gap. I took it. You coulda taken a bit more curb.”

“And you could’ve stayed on the goddamned racing line,” Jonny throws back, glaring at him.

“Patches, really,” Burns sighs, “you had to get them going again?”

Pacioretty shrugs. “It’s entertaining, isn’t it?”

The argument takes a pause when someone comes over with a new round of drinks, and conversation switches over to the actual racing and the cars instead, since they’d been slowly drifting towards the subject, anyway.

“It makes all the difference!” Kesler cries, on the topic of monocoques and space-frames. Jonny’s following the conversation with interest, but some of the other drivers are drifting in and out, clearly not as concerned with the technical aspect of their cars. “You’re always gonna want a quick fix if there’s something wrong with the car.”

“A quick fix won’t matter if you’re breaking down in the middle of a race,” Seabs argues, “we’ve been touting way better reliability the entire season.”

“Our car’s finished one more race than yours,” Kesler counters, before glancing over at Jonny, adding apologetically, “Sorry, Toews.”

“Yeah, but he’s ranking higher than your guy at the moment,” Kane points out, one moment discussing what sounded like this year’s Indy 500 with Pacioretty, the next jumping into the conversation out of nowhere. “He’s at, what, 32 points to Schauer’s 24? That’s a hell of a gap, there. And he only did a 0:54.09 during the second heat at Mantorp. Toews had a 0:53:30. Same in Austria, wasn’t it? Toews qualified sixth on the grid, 0:42.34. Schauer? 0:43.56.”

Kesler does his best impression of a fish.

Jonny tamps down the urge to do the same. _The fuck?_ Kane’s not even guessing at times. He’s got them down to the hundredth of a second, too. He looks sideways at Seabs, who looks just as stunned as Brandon does, who’s been hanging onto every word of the discussion.

“Kane,” Burns says, loudly and disbelieving enough that the entire group turns their attention back to them, “how the fuck do you even remember that? Mantorp was a _month_ ago.”

“Uh,” Kane says, scratching his chin idly, “I read the timesheets? Don’t you?”

 _“No,”_ says half the table, while Burns remarks, “Reading them and actually remembering them enough to bring up the exact times in casual conversation are two completely different things.”

Kane smiles awkwardly, and it’s the first time Jonny’s seen him be anything other than cocky, or loud, or sure of himself. “I like knowing the times. It makes sense to keep up with the competition, doesn’t it? And you’re not losing anything from it.”

“Do you know everybody’s statistics?” Brandon asks, clearly fascinated.

Kane ducks his head. “Uh, I think so,” he says, looking like he’s trying to remember, “but mostly only this season’s times, since it’s more relevant? But only for qualis.”

“That’s fucking amazing,” Jonny says, mouth running before his mind can stop him.

Kane looks up, eyes widening. “Oh,” he says, startled at Jonny’s sudden admission, “y’really think so?”

“Of course I do,” Jonny maintains, and a sudden, pleased smile breaks out across Kane’s features, in turn making Jonny feel a strange sense of accomplishment. Huh. That’s new.

Suter glances at Jonny, before looking back at Kane, a weird expression on his face. “Well, Jesus,” he says, shaking his head, “who woulda known it’d only take two beers and some numbers for Kane and Toews to finally make nice?”

“If it even lasts,” Kesler mutters, still miffed that Kane completely wrecked his argument.

Kane ignores him. “Well,” he says, “am I gonna treasure this moment for the rest of the season! Jonathan Toews thinks I’m amazing.”

“Hey,” Jonny says, but everyone’s already laughing. “I said your memory’s amazing, asshole, not you. I’m taking it back, since you can’t even remember _that_ from ten seconds ago.”

“Hey, wait— _Toews!”_ The table lights up with even more laughter, when Kane just gawks at him.

“Told you,” Kesler says.

“Oh God,” Burns says, holding his stomach as he cracks up, “I’m so glad you got Toews to come tonight.”

“This is unfair,” Kane complains, and he catches Jonny’s eye and grins, a quick flash that tells Jonny he’s really just playing along, and Jonny can’t help but chuckle too.

Fuck. Kane really isn’t that bad, after all.

 

 

Midnight rolls around, and Jonny’s thinking about heading back to the motel and getting a few z’s in, the day having felt longer than usual. Seabs, Keith (“It’s _Duncan,_ Jonny, c’mon”) and Brandon are still caught in a discussion about ground effect, and Jonny doesn’t think they'll be leaving anytime soon.

He stands to get up and go, gathering his coat in his arms. “I’m off,” he announces, and the group wave their goodbyes, Seabs grabbing one of their room keys from Jonny before he splits, but it’s a surprise when Kane drains his bottle and declares his departure too.

“I’m dead on my feet,” Kane admits, once they’re walking down the street, shoulder-to-shoulder, not quite in any rush despite their weariness. “Don’t know how I’m gonna wake up in the morning.”

“You’ve done it before,” Jonny says, recalling two races ago, where he’d witnessed Kane drink himself into oblivion after crashing out in the first qualifying heat, and then stagger back to his trailer where he’d passed out for the night, waking up early the next morning to dutifully observe the next round of qualifying, leaning against the fencing and sporting what looked like the world’s worst hangover. “Not up for a repeat performance?”

“That was one time,” Kane says, sniffing. “And I had my reasons.”

“Yeah.” Jonny shrugs. “I think you could’ve placed high on the grid. You did, what, a 1:30-something, a 1:34, maybe, on your second lap out? If you hadn’t spun out on the next lap, I think you might’ve been able to gain four tenths in the second sector.”

Kane’s staring at Jonny. “You were watching?” He sounds oddly pleased by this piece of information, the same way he’d been when Jonny had found out about his love of numbers.

“Yes,” Jonny says, a little unsure how to feel about Kane’s reaction, “I mean, you’ve seen me race, too.”

“Yeah, but.” Kane shrugs. “You’re Jonathan Toews. There’s always something to learn from what you’re doing.”

Jonny’s surprise doesn’t show on his face, thankfully. Of all the things he thought Kane would think about him, that definitely wasn’t one of them.

“And there isn’t from you?” Jonny steers the conversation back, not wanting Kane to realize just how taken aback he is. “Look, it’s not as if your car’s just magically faster than the others. The way you take high-speed corners could destroy drivers who don’t know when to shift the way you do. You’re a damn good driver, Kane.”

“Oh,” Kane says, and the dark doesn’t quite show it, but a stray strand of light from a lamp-post catches the quirk of his lips when he smiles. “That’s—I didn’t think I’d be hearing that from you of all people.”

“Hey,” Jonny says, lightly, “I can appreciate skill when I see it.”

They reach the hotel soon enough, but Jonny hangs back at the stairs.

“I’m going to check in with my guys in the other room first. Make sure they all got in alright,” Jonny says, motioning down the ground floor corridor. “G’night, Kane.”

“It’s Patrick,” Kane says, and Jonny stops in his tracks, about to walk down the hallway. “Since, y’know, we’re not really screaming in each other’s faces, anymore.”

Jonny snorts, and glances back at him. “Who says we won’t be in a week’s time?”

Kane—no, Patrick, apparently—laughs. His voice is surprisingly bright in the quiet of the night. It’s not loud, no, not at all. Rather, it’s like flicking on a bedside lamp, the soft spill of light across a room. Not jarring, not too sudden. “That’s true.”

There’s a pause, before Jonny says, “It’s Jonny, then.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s Jonny,” he repeats, before he can take it back. “Since we’re best friends now, or something.”

The quip makes Patrick laugh again. “Or somethin’,” he agrees, grinning, and Jonny can’t help himself; he grins back.

Maybe that’s the most surprising thing, Jonny muses, as they part ways for the meantime, that he’s enjoyed Patrick Kane’s company this much tonight. A stark contrast compared to the first few times they’d come across each other. Arguing and taunting and coming close to shoving at each other, on track.

Maybe that’s a good thing. A real good thing.

 

 

A week later, on the Circuit d’Albi podium, standing just one step lower than Regehr, who’d blazed his way through the grid, and a step higher than Patrick, who’d followed in at a quick third, Jonny takes in the crowd and the cheers and lifts his second place trophy with a wide grin. He sends a thumbs-up to his team. They’re whooping appreciatively at the result, and it never fails to make Jonny grateful for the work they put in each race.

He’s about to step down from the box, when he feels a tug on the sleeve of his racing overalls, and he turns to see Patrick motion for him to lean down. “Fuckin’ lightning out there, Jonny,” he says into Jonny’s ear, just loud enough to hear over the noise of the paddock. “Good one.”

It only takes Jonny by surprise for a moment, but he grasps Patrick’s shoulder and squeezes, trying to get the same sentiment across. “You could’ve taken it, bud. Next race, eh?”

“Yeah, son.” Patrick smiles wildly, his unruly curls bouncing as he hops off the step. Jonny follows. “Next race, for sure.”

Jonny smiles back, and a camera flash goes off.

 

 

**_London, England; 1972_ **

“Really?” Jonny says, standing in front of one of Patrick’s many over-decorated walls in his London flat. The wallpaper peels, apparently, and that’s the tepid groundwork on which Patrick has built up the excuse of wanting to keep people from noticing by layering said walls with a million photographs and newspaper clippings.

Sure. Nobody notices at all.

“Really,” Patrick echoes, a muffled sound from where he’s got his head in the refrigerator, taking far too long to come back up with two beers. “Wait, what are we talking about again?”

“I can’t believe you kept that,” Jonny elaborates, waving halfheartedly at the picture on the wall, squeezed in between two photographs of Patrick’s sisters, another one of Patrick holding up his Rookie of the Year trophy, and a clipping of an article on keeping birds as pets.

Patrick appears at his shoulder, handing off a bottle of Bass Red Triangle. “Oh, that one,” he says, seeing where Jonny’s gaze is focused on. It’s the only photograph that exists of the two of them in the same frame. Albi, 1971. “I like it,” Patrick says simply, “’cause it’s when we decided to stop strangling each other in public, and y’gotta commemorate those kinda things, Jonny.”

They look a lot younger, somehow, even though it’s only been a year. The camera’s caught them mid-step, all pink-cheeked and grinning at each other like they’re sharing a secret. Patrick’s eyes are remarkably blue in the picture. Jonny’s hand is on his shoulder, and for a split second, Jonny can remember the heat from Patrick’s skin, soaking through his race overalls, warming Jonny’s palm.

Jonny tears his eyes away, and tilts the bottle against his lips, washing down that niggling feeling that he hasn’t quite identified yet, not since Albi. It’s been a year, and Formula 2 has given way to proper racing, both of them getting ridiculously lucky and signing contracts with Formula 1 teams around the same time.

Then again, Patrick’s still happy with Penske. They’ve been treating him a lot better than Stanton, so far. He’s their clear number one driver, and he’s had a steady start to the season. Jonny, on the other hand—he exhales hard, and starts drinking the bottle down to the dregs, hoping to get through at least a few more before anyone else comes over.

“Whoa there, tiger,” Patrick says, and he looks mildly concerned. “You alright there? You don’t normally try to waste yourself at four in the afternoon.”

“Guh,” Jonny says, suddenly incapable of words, and Patrick must see something in his face, because he’s steering Jonny over to the couch, and pressing him down to take a seat with a firm hand on his shoulder. Jonny silently finishes his drink, aware of Patrick staring at him like he’s afraid Jonny’s about to announce he’s got a terminal illness.

He finally says, “I’m getting evicted. In a week.”

There’s a pause. “Whoa,” Patrick says, still staring, “a week—fuck, what happened?”

“I can’t,” Jonny starts, clearing his throat when the words come out scratchy and embarrassed, “uh, I can’t afford. My place. Anymore.”

Patrick’s face makes a strange expression, before it settles on determined, “Well, March just got that new sponsor, didn’t they? You could ask for an advance, conditional or whatever—”

“I can’t,” Jonny interrupts, and he stares at the carpet. It’s an ugly carpet. It’s dark green with orange trimming. Patrick only has it because he says it looks like a BRM H16, but he’s somehow missed the fact that a shag carpet has nothing in common with a race car. “They folded. Two days ago. I just found out this morning, when I went to ask them about pay.”

“Fuck,” Patrick says, eyes wide, “what the fuck, Jonny, but you _just_ got signed.” He sounds crestfallen. “We were supposed to be racing together.”

“I know,” Jonny says, and he knows he’s still in denial over the fact. He’d called his agent the second he stepped out of the March office, but he knows he’s running out of time. It’s almost April. He doesn’t know who’ll sign him this late in the season. “Fuck,” he says, scrubbing his hand over his face, feeling too uneasy and in the dark about everything. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

He hears a curious hum, and he lifts his head to see Patrick looking thoughtful. “You could bunk with me. I’ve got the space.”

“I can’t—I don’t want to impose, or anything,” Jonny says immediately, “I mean, it’s short notice—”

“Hey, I’m only gonna offer once, alright? Don’t make me take it back so quick.” Patrick chews on his lip, and adds, “’sides, I’ll still make you work for it.”

“What, you can’t afford a dishwasher?”

“Why, when I can have my own personal one?” Patrick grins. “You in, or what?”

“Well,” Jonny says, still considering the options. He could stay with Seabs, but his wife Dayna's just had his baby. Brandon shares his place with three other kids, and Jonny doesn’t know anyone close enough to ask if he can stay with them indefinitely.

Whereas, with Patrick—they’re really not that close either. They’ve had a year to become friends, sure, but it’s always been for short moments: race weekends, rare drinks with the other drivers to talk shop, accidental meetings on the sidewalk that turn into conversations over dinner, because Jonny likes hearing Patrick’s opinion on racing.

That’s still been spotted with just as many scraps, and arguments, though they’ve simmered down and haven’t quite caused as much a buzz as they used to, when they were still proper rivals in F2.

But, well, Patrick’s asked him. Patrick’s offered. Jonny hadn’t even had to suggest it.

“Well?” Patrick echoes expectantly, wanting an answer.

Well. It can’t hurt.

“Just until I find a new team?”

Patrick whoops. “Knew you had it in ya.”

“Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoy my company,” Jonny says dryly, not quite overwhelmed by Patrick’s show of enthusiasm at him taking up the offer to stay. “Really, Patrick?”

“What?” Patrick shrugs. “The birds like guests.” _And so do I,_ Jonny hears, unsaid among other things that Patrick never really gives away. For all his brashness, he’s an exceedingly private person, and Jonny thinks he might be lucky to know as much as he does about Patrick, despite it not being much anyway.

Not that it’s of any matter, of course. But, sometimes it’s… nice. To know things about Patrick. And to have Patrick know things about him. Like they’re conspiring together, somehow. When their eyes meet across the table at whatever bar they’ve met at, and Patrick’s mouth twists up into that slow grin, like he’s letting Jonny in on a secret—

Jonny shakes the thought away, feeling unsettled.

There’s a knock on the door, and as Patrick goes to answer, Jonny makes for the kitchen to grab another bottle of Red. Sure, he’s found a place to stay, but he still doesn’t have a team. If he has to wait out the rest of the season to get another drive—if he can even get another drive—

“I’m gonna need this,” he mutters, snapping the cap open.

“Kaner!” _Calisse,_ it’s Shaw. Jonny drinks a little faster, not drunk enough to be able to deal with actual people today. Somewhere in the back-room, Patrick’s pet budgies trill at a volume not even able to match Shaw’s, excited to have more humans over. “Missed you, buddy!”

“You saw him two days ago,” Brandon points out over Shaw’s shoulder.

“Friendship knows no timing, Saadster.” Shaw pauses. “No, I don’t think that works either.”

“Jesus Christ, just stick to his last name, please,” Jonny calls, still regretting the day the two of them became friends, “your nicknames for him are getting progressively worse. I can’t let this go on.”

“But, Tazer!”

“No,” Jonny says.

Patrick’s laughing, the little bastard. As if he had nothing to do with the fact that Andrew Shaw’s just latched on completely to Brandon, after meeting him just twice. And now, Jonny has to see him everywhere.

The doorbell rings, and Shaw hops back to answer it. It’s probably more of Patrick’s friends.

“Y’know,” Patrick murmurs, and Jonny nearly jumps, having not noticed that Patrick had come so close. “At least they’ll be a useful a distraction, right?” When Jonny doesn’t say anything, he sighs. “Jonny, look. You’ll be good in no time. You’re Jonathan Toews. Who wouldn’t sign you?” He nudges Jonny in the side lightly. “You’re a real catch.”

Jonny laughs, a little darkly. “A catch, huh? Wish that’d been true a day ago.”

“Hey.” Patrick shifts closer, and his voice drops a little in volume. Jonny looks down at where Patrick’s arm is pressed against his, warm. It doesn’t feel intrusive at all. “I’m going to feed the birds,” Patrick says simply, “you wanna come with?”

Patrick’s five budgerigars have always liked when Jonny holds out seeds for them, taking turns to peck some out of his palm. They’re sweet things, those little birds. And Jonny doesn’t mind maybe escaping some of the noise for a bit. “Sure,” Jonny says gratefully, recognising the out for what it is. “Thanks.”

 

 

Turns out, Patrick was right (not that Jonny will admit it to his face).

Jonny’s agent had called back nine days later, just a little over a week after Jonny had finished moving into Patrick’s spare room, with the news that Team Canada Racing was looking for a driver.

A somewhat-established Canadian team, signing an up-and-coming Canadian driver?

It was possibly a minor miracle.

Patrick definitely thought so. He’d sprayed a bottle of beer all over Jonny upon hearing (“It’s a celebration, c’mon!”) and laughed when Jonny flipped him off, beer-sticky and pissed off.

Contrary to what Jonny had said about staying only until he’d found a new team, he finds himself sticking around even after signing his new contract, and checking out the car, and taking it for test runs. He’s still down on funds, so it’s impossible for him to get a place just yet, and Patrick keeps assuring him it’s all good, and he can even help out with the rent if it makes him feel better, so.

Jonny sticks around.

 

 

“They’re getting confused,” Patrick tells him one night, snickering as he hangs his coat on the wall, shucking his shoes off after returning from what seems to have been an exciting night out. His collar is lopsided, and there’s a definite unkempt look to his hair that hadn’t been present when he left.

From the couch, Jonny doesn’t look up from his book as he asks, “Who’s getting confused, and why?”

“Everyone. The public. The other drivers. The media.” Patrick flops onto the couch, and stretches his legs out, sighing. Jonny doesn’t move over; in the two months they’ve been flat-sharing, he’s learnt to deal with Patrick’s lack of personal space. It’s not something he’d noticed before being around Patrick for prolonged periods of time, but now? Jonny doesn’t even blink when Patrick’s fingers skitter along the curve of his shoulder absently. “They all think we hate each other and that we’re bitter rivals till the end.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Hilarious, Toews. Anyway,” Patrick chuckles, “people have started to notice that we’re flat-mates and the concept of us being friends is apparently the strangest thing in the world.”

“Wouldn’t blame them, honestly, after Crystal Palace, and Vallelunga—”

“And Monza, and Mantorp, and Brands Hatch, yeah, yeah.” Patrick waves it all off. “Things change. It’s still fuckin’ funny to fuck with ‘em, though. I told a reporter the other day that you blackmailed me into letting you stay and he actually believed me.”

“Yes, because you’re the absolute pinnacle of honesty and trust.” Jonny snorts. “Or he’s just an airhead. Honestly.”

Patrick yawns, and stretches, his hand brushing the back of Jonny’s neck lightly. “I’m gonna go pass out now. Check ya later, Jonny.”

“Night, Patrick.” Jonny watches him pad away to his room, and ignores the quiet tingle that remains along his nape, where skin had touched skin.

He goes back to his book, but finds that he can’t get through a single page the rest of the hour that he sits there.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and he closes the book quietly, setting it on the table. He’ll sleep this off. It’ll be gone in the morning. It’s nothing. It’s just Patrick being Patrick. It’s just Jonny being weird about things.

In the morning, Patrick toes sleepily around him to get to the fridge, and he does it again, reaching over Jonny to grab an egg.

Jonny shivers, and pretends to not notice Patrick glancing at him when he wolfs down his breakfast a little too quickly.

 

 

They get closer over the time they’re living together. It’s hard not to, once you’re sharing a space for a majority of the year, working around the same schedules and falling into similar routines, enough that they start to sync up after a while. They take the same flights back, they share cabs. Jonny ends up making the place a little more his, inadvertently.

He doesn’t realize until Patrick’s calling from the kitchen one morning, “Did you rearrange the cupboards?”

“Yeah?” Jonny peers in, holding a mug of tea. “They were seriously disorganised, you expect me to live with that?”

Patrick makes an annoyed noise. “You replaced my cereal with some weird shit. The fuck?”

“You still ate out of that box yesterday,” Jonny points out.

“Huh,” Patrick says, looking back into the cupboard. “Well. Since you mentioned it—got any of that fancy tea left?”

“Second drawer to your left.”

Patrick grunts in acknowledgment, and goes to fish the tea out of the drawer, while Jonny sips at his own cup, considering the fact that half the kitchen has become overrun with Jonny’s stuff. Patrick still treats it like his own, though; he goes through those chocolate digestives Jonny always buys with careless abandon, never replacing them.

Jonny finds that he doesn’t really mind.

“Disgusting,” Jonny comments, watching Patrick drown his tea in milk and sugar.

“Shut up.” Patrick flicks his spoon in Jonny’s direction, before sticking it in his mouth. “I know you take your coffee even sweeter than this, so you don’t get to talk.”

Jonny shakes his head, but it’s fond.

They get closer, and it’s funny, the way the media portrays them as two-dimensional characters, racing rivals who couldn’t possibly be anything else. It amuses him to no end when people spot them having drinks together, or sitting knee-to-knee in the booth of a restaurant, arguing over whose aero packages are providing better results, and seem shocked to no end.

“Well,” Patrick will say, with a wink each time, “Jonathan just couldn’t resist my dazzling personality.”

Jonny will roll his eyes, but he’ll only ever admit to himself that there’s the slightest bit of truth to it.

No one else will know just how intriguing he finds Patrick Kane.

He’s really not how he seems to be. You think, at first, he’s reckless. He’s careless. He flirts with death the same way he flirts with women—like he’s addicted to the thrill, to the chase. He fucks around and parties every other night and has the capability to drink entire bars dry.

It’s everything Jonny could hate—wants to hate.

But Patrick comes back to the flat, kicks his shoes off into the same corner that he always does every single night, and walks around barefoot, humming quietly under his breath. He wears old shirts from his USAC days and whistles back to his budgerigars and tickles them under their beaks with a soft smile.

He lies on the same ugly BRM-inspired rug that’s in the living room for hours, eyes closed, one hand closed over an imaginary gear-shift. He drives tracks in his mind’s eye, muttering the names of corners as he goes: _come screaming out of Eau Rouge in seventh gear before Les Combes comes into sight, third gear throughout all three turns, sixth gear into Rivage, take it down a couple of notches before entering Pouhon back up in fifth, slip into Fagnes just as carefully as Les Combes, hold on real fuckin’ tight when it’s time to take Blanchimont in sixth,_ and on, and on, and on.

He bothers Jonny while he’s trying to read on the sofa, tucking his cold, bare toes under Jonny’s thigh and completely ignoring any boundaries that might’ve existed at one point in time, complaining about how lumpy the cushions are, and how they should just get a new one, _c’mon Jonny, we have the fuckin’ money Jonny, don’t fuckin’ invest it, what the fuck, you’re a racing driver, not a banker._

(They get a new couch three days later.)

Jonny lets it all play out in front of him, lets the days roll in and his initial perceptions of Patrick Kane twist and change and evolve into something more genuine, more private, until Jonny knows that something’s different about the way they flit around each other: friends, but not quite; friends, but a little more.

And Jonny—he does have a feeling, just the slightest feeling, that he knows exactly when it started, but he’s just a little less lonely these days. He’s smiling more often, he’s being more social, he’s got a roof over his head, he’s got a drive.

Everything’s going right for him.

 

 

Then, the season rolls quietly to an end that year, and so does Jonny’s.

Team Canada Racing goes insolvent.

 

 

Halfway through the bottle of whiskey that Jonny had brought back with him after the dismal meeting with the TCR owners, Patrick says, “You barely talk about your family. Are they all still back in Canada?”

It breaks the silence that’s been hanging over them since Jonny returned, numb to the thought of losing yet another ride this season, and unable to properly voice any of his thoughts, choosing instead to split a bottle with Patrick.

Patrick had taken his share without question, waiting only until Jonny had taken a swig before asking what had happened. Jonny had just said, “Have to find another ride again.”

They’d lapsed into silence after, with just the soft pattering of rain outside to accompany the clink of the bottle against their glasses.

Now, Jonny answers, “Yes.” He observes the shine on his glass, adding offhandedly, “They never really approved of any of this. Racing.” He’s aware of how bitter he sounds when he says, “Guess I’ve proven them right.”

Patrick elbows him. Hard.

“Fucking— _Patrick,”_ Jonny hisses, elbowing him back, careful to not spill whiskey out of either of their glasses. It turns into a minor scuffle, until Patrick finally surrenders, holding his glass out of reach when Jonny attempts to steal it from him. “What was that for?” Jonny asks, rubbing at his side.

“You haven’t proven them anything,” Patrick says fiercely, and Jonny blinks, taken aback. “It’s only a minor setback, Jonny. You’re gonna come back next season and smash the grid to pieces. With the exception of myself,” Patrick quickly amends, “since I’ll be way ahead of you, anyway.”

Jonny huffs. “That’s hilarious, Kane.” He watches the lights play off the angles of the half-empty bottle on the table for a moment, falling silent again. Patrick doesn’t say anything either, just looking at him like he’s trying to figure something out for himself. “I moved away from home when I was fourteen,” he starts, slowly, like he’s trying to draw the memories back to the forefront of his mind again, after keeping them pushed away for so long. “There was a team that was willing to take me on, after karting. Formula Ford Québec, then Formula Atlantic. Spent so much time speaking French that after a few years, my accent was thicker than the rest of my family’s.”

“You went home?”

“Just a few days.” Jonny remembers the argument he’d had with his parents over how it wouldn’t ever be a steady career, that they’d raised him for something else—anything but this. But there isn’t anything he’d ever want to do but this. There won’t ever be. “Just to tell them that I was leaving again. French F3.”

Patrick whistles low. “Big move.” He leans back against the sofa and tilts his glass against his lips, though, he doesn’t drink from it. “I only really left when I was nineteen. To come here, for British F3. Before that, it was dirt track racing, some USAC stock cars, some Can-Am, all local stuff. Didn’t get picked up until I did Indy. But,” he says, pausing a little, like he’s really thinking about it, “I can’t imagine doing it all without my family having my back through it all.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, then.” Jonny finishes his glass. “You had support. I didn’t.”

“Well. We took different paths, but we still made it. We got here, Jonny. It’s not nothing.” Patrick tucks one foot under Jonny’s knee, close enough for their shoulders to bump. “I know you. Nothing’s gonna stop you from getting a new team. I fuckin’ know it.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, and reaches over to pour the last bit of the bottle into his glass. “Yeah, Patrick.”

It’s comforting, the silence. The words that Patrick’s just spoken aloud. Jonny wants those words to be true for him, to be true for them. That this isn’t just it—he’s not just going to be that driver with the wasted potential, watching others move on without him, just because he didn’t try hard enough to get another drive.

Jonny reaches over and curls one arm around his shoulders, tugging him into a half-hug until it’s turned into Patrick just leaning against Jonny, his back warm against Jonny’s front, his hair tickling Jonny’s cheek. “Thanks,” Jonny says, and Patrick hums in return.

They’re both quiet, both slipping into this moment that they know they wouldn’t ever have anywhere other than here, with anybody else, but Patrick breaks the silence with a soft, “I’m glad we became friends, Jonny Toews.”

“Me too, Pat Kane.” Jonny picks his glass up with his free hand, stretching to clink it against Patrick’s.

The warmth of the alcohol mixes with the warmth he feels from Patrick’s body pressed against his side, until he can’t distinguish between the two.

 

 

**_Bourne, England; 1973_ **

He takes a loan.

Jonny knows it’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, but he’s got no choice. BRM’s the only option left, and they need the money, and Jonny’s not going to hope for anything more than this, at the moment. The only thing he asks for, in addition, is to have his own guys on the team as well.

They take it, a handshake to wrap up the deal, and a promise for Jonny to test the new car tomorrow.

Jonny makes the second trip down to BRM’s headquarters in Bourne to see the BRM P160, a 3.0 litre V12 that looks like a box of Marlboros.

The engineers watch him attentively as he circles the car. Seabs and Brandon are standing by the door, looking the car over too, but Jonny knows they’re waiting on him to say something first. “We’re running on Firestones?” he finally asks.

“Yes,” says one of the engineers. “They’re decent.” They still look a little cautious. Jonny’s reputation precedes him, he guesses. He’s got a penchant for spotting the tiniest of ways to improve the car and being too straightforward about it. It usually makes mechanics pivot between impressed, horrified, or awfully upset that they hadn’t seen it.

He hopes these guys won’t take his words too hard. Seabs and Brandon are already used to it, anyway, they can reassure the rest of them later.

Jonny nods. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do with this.”

 

 

He meets the other BRM driver on the same day, too.

“Marian Hossa,” he introduces himself as, grasping his hand firmly. Jonny recognises him from previous races; he’s one of the more reliable drivers on the grid, the kind of driver you want for a car that hasn’t yet proven itself to be a quick drive. He can get bottom six cars up in the top ten, and that’s real talent. Jonny’s sure he won’t be long at BRM. “So, how is the first day?”

“Not bad,” Jonny says, “the car’s decent enough to get into the top ten.”

“When it is not broken,” Hossa says conspiratorially, and Jonny has to agree. He’s not looking forward to not finishing every other second race this season, but if this is what he can get for now, it’s enough. He’ll move up the ladder soon enough.

 

 

The prediction rings true. He barely scrapes through into the top fifteen, some races. Hossa fares no better than him, most of the time.

But his luck seems to take a turn when Hossa tells him, one night, that Ferrari has two empty seats next season, and Hossa’s been signed to one of them. The other remains to be taken.

“By who?” Jonny asks, heart in his throat.

Hossa smiles widely, and says, “I did tell them that I have quick team-mate.”

Fuck. Ferrari knows he exists. Ferrari knows his name.

_This is it._

“They are scouting, next race.” Hossa gets up from his seat, and claps Jonny on the shoulder. “Do good, Toews. Do not forget.”

“Will do,” Jonny says, even though Hossa’s already left. This is it. It has to be it, for him. He’s been waiting for this for years. He knows that Hossa must have mentioned his name mainly out of concern that another driver would take the seat, do better, and oust Hossa. Jonny knows he’ll have to play nice if he gets the seat, a year, at least, to gain enough standing to keep the seat another year.

But that’s only if they do sign him.

 _Jonathan Toews, Scuderia Ferrari,_ he thinks. It has a nice ring to it.

 

 

**_Naples, Italy; 1973_ **

A serving girl comes up to him.

She has a tray of wine precariously balanced in one hand, and a charming smile.

Jonny politely refuses another drink for the fourth time, and takes another glance around. He still isn’t quite sure what he’s doing here—he’d become a side-along the second he’d walked through the doors with Patrick, and he’s been standing by the window the entire time, only half-listening to this stock broker drone on about the Bretton Woods system and the Nixon shock.

God. He has no idea why he even agreed to come in the first place.

Patrick’s standing by the fireplace, courting sponsors and pretty women. He networks with his charisma, and wins them over with his smile. It’s actually impressive to watch him make his moves; Jonny can see him maintaining conversation with an older gentleman while at the same time managing to retain the attention of some Italian actress, who’s hanging onto his every word.

Jonny should go.

“I’m sorry, I have to take my leave now,” Jonny tells the stock broker, and he walks off towards the other side of the living room. He catches Patrick’s attention, a hand on his shoulder as he leans in, saying, “I’m gonna head off. I’ll see you later.”

“Hold on for a second,” Patrick says, turning, “you’re going? Now? But I got here with you.”

“Get a ride with someone,” Jonny says, motioning towards the gaggle of people.

“I can’t do that, Jonny,” Patrick says, not quite giving any excuse as for why, and Jonny ends up having to wait another ten minutes while Patrick wraps up his conversations, kisses the actress on the cheek, and takes the gentleman’s name-card. “Y’know,” Patrick tells him as they walk down the steps of the villa, “you don’t come to parties to stay for only two hours.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t stay.”

“Yeah, but _Jonny,”_ Patrick whines, “I’m not gonna make somebody I barely know drive me all the way back to the hotel from here.”

“You’re making me do that, aren’t you?”

“Only because you came with! And I know you!”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“Jonny—”

“Hello? Excuse me, I am sorry.” They both turn to see a young woman standing by the bottom of the steps, looking a little frazzled. Jonny recognises her as one of the other guests, a tall woman with dark hair who’d been speaking with a man around her age. “My car is not working, and I have no way to get back to the center of the town.”

“We’re going there, would you like a lift?” Jonny offers, and she smiles gratefully, nodding.

Patrick gets relegated to the back, since he’s not the one driving, and Jonny puts the Lancia into drive as he asks, “What’s your name?”

“Nina,” she says, her accent forming the word delicately, and Jonny can already tell that she’s French. “Why, yes,” she answers, when Jonny inquires. “You speak it?”

 _“Ouais,”_ Jonny says, “I’m from Canada, but my mother’s family is from France.”

 _“I thought so, with your accent. I do find it a little strange, but with you… it is not so,”_ she muses, all in French, and Jonny sees her eyes flick over him, silent appraisal. He catches Patrick’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, surprisingly quiet this whole time, probably taken off guard with the language barrier.

The car goes over a little bump, and Jonny feels a rattle somewhere within the car. “Patrick,” he says, eyes on the meter, “when you rented this, did they say when they last serviced it?”

“Uh,” Patrick says, eyebrows furrowed, “don’t think so.”

Jonny resists the urge to swear. “We’re not going to make it back.”

“You don’t know that,” Patrick says. “The car is perfectly fine.”

“I’m telling you, when we’re on the side of the road—”

“The car is _fine,”_ Patrick repeats, stubborn in his misplaced trust in the car’s capabilities.

 

 

It’s a bit too bright in the Italian countryside.

Jonny considers the car once more as the sun beats down hard on them, while Patrick stands uselessly by the side of the road with his thumb out. “Motherfucker,” Patrick mutters under his breath, watching another car speed past without stopping. “Don’t say it, Toews.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Jonny says, only somewhat delighted that he’s proved Patrick right, but more disgruntled at the fact that they have no way to get back to the city, and nobody’s stopping for them.

Nina clucks her tongue. “Come, let me.” During the brief car ride, they’d found out that Nina’s apparently a rather well-known actress, which explains why she’d been at the party earlier.

Jonny and Patrick watch her walk up to the car, leaning against it in a way that makes the slit in her dress fall past her thigh. She sticks her thumb out, waiting for the next car to pass by.

It skids to a halt just metres after them.

“You see,” Nina says, as the two men in the car jump out, “thank you for stopping—”

“Jonathan Toews!” one of them says, “it cannot be! And Kane, Patrick Kane!”

Jonny’s never been so glad to have fans in his life.

Nina blinks, taken aback, and she watches them stride right up to Jonny and Patrick to shake their hands.

“Uh,” Jonny says, but Patrick is already turning up the charm by a hundred percent.

“Say, you wouldn’t mind if we hitched a ride, would you? Our car’s broken down,” he makes a face, gesturing at the mildly smoking Lancia, “and we’ll compensate ya, for sure.”

“For you, no problem!” The first Italian man gives him a thumbs up, and starts to usher them towards the car. “But only—only if you drive the car! It would be great honour to have you drive my car!”

They agree, and all of them head to the working car.

“No,” Jonny says, the second Patrick opens his mouth to call driver’s seat, and Patrick glares, before opening the passenger’s side for Nina, who’s looking quite flabbergasted at the whole situation. At least he’s still got some manners.

The two Italians are even more enthusiastic, if that’s possible, when Jonny starts driving. Jonny meets Patrick’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and smirks at how he has to sit in the back of the already tiny car.

“Am I missing something?” Nina asks, glancing back and forth between Jonny and Patrick. “Should I know who you are?”

“They are racing drivers,” the more excited of the two Italians says, gesturing towards them, _“Formula 1_ drivers! Patrick Kane is Penske driver, Jonathan Toews is BRM, but there is rumour he will go to _Ferrari._ Ferrari driver Jonathan Toews!”

Patrick’s head swivels towards Jonny. “Ferrari?” he repeats, disbelieving. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I was going to,” Jonny says, keeping his eyes on the road, but when he glances back, Patrick looks… disappointed? That Jonny hadn’t told him about the talks? “Pat, nothing’s gone through yet. They’re just scouting.”

“Just scouting,” Patrick echoes, falling silent after that.

Jonny feels a little guilty at not telling him. The talks had only happened last week, and they really hadn’t been anything—just gauging interest. BRM’s still not willing to let him go just yet, and it depends on what Ferrari wants, in the end. They could always go for someone else, still.

“Formula 1 driver?” Nina looks disbelieving. “For him,” she motions towards Patrick, “I can understand, perhaps. But you?” She glances over at him under her lashes, giving him another once-over. “Impossible.”

“Why?”

“You drive so carefully.”

“Lady’s right, y’know,” Patrick says, “you’re driving slower than my great-grandmother right now, and she’s dead.”

“There isn’t any need to drive fast.” Jonny steers them carefully up a little hill. “Driving fast increasing the percentage of risk. This isn’t a race. It’s not my car. There’s no incentive or reward. Why would I drive fast?”

Nina says, “Because I’m asking you to.”

Jonny looks over at her. _“Do you always get what you want?”_ he asks in French.

 _“Usually,”_ she answers, her lips curling into a smile.

 _Too bad it won’t be happening this time,_ Jonny thinks, and he’s about to say just as much, when Patrick adds, “It’s not like he could make this car go faster anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Patrick says breezily, and Jonny’s gaze sharpens. He knows what Patrick’s game is; it’s been years and he still knows how to rile Jonny up the way no one else can. And Jonny’s not falling for it, he’s not. “I’m saying that Nina’s gonna be real disappointed when she finds out that you ain’t quite the driver you say you are.”

“Says the one who isn’t even driving the car.”

“Excuses, Jonny, excuses.” Patrick tsks, and leans back, looking far too relaxed for his own good.

Nina’s starting to look a little unimpressed, glancing between the two of them, and the Italians just look confused by the whole situation.

“C’mon, Jonny-boy,” Patrick says, “make her day.” He pauses, and straightens back up to lean over and say, right into Jonny’s ear, his tone just as teasing as her’s, “I’m askin’ you to.”

He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something about that, something about the way he’s said it, something about the fact that he even said anything, that makes Jonny just—

Pause.

And then, it’s almost like clockwork, the way he moves, slipping into that state of mind he reserves only for when he’s on track.

He hits the clutch, shifts gears, and slams his foot down on the gas.

 

 

They’d thanked him, after, the two men who’d stopped for them. It’s probably one of the greatest moments of their lives now, Jonny figures, having a racing driver speed through the countryside and nearly get them hit by a truck in the process. Not that that had actually happened—Jonny knew he’d be able to go quicker than the truck could switch lanes, as long as he angled the car to the left just enough and snapped it back before it could veer off.

They’d found it amazing. Nina definitely came back around after that little adventure, too, beaming the entire ride through (minus the part where Jonny had swerved around the truck). She’d commented after, “Looks like you are a racing driver after all,” and Jonny had just laughed.

He’d felt exhilarated. He can’t remember the last time he’d felt that way not on a track. He never does this, never gives in to taunts or rises to the bait when it comes to driving, especially not when it involves a car that he doesn’t trust, or a lack of knowledge that the car is safe enough to even touch the speed limit with.

It makes him feel unnerved, how much he’d enjoyed it.

Jonny doesn’t regret it, though.

But even though he’d impressed the locals, and won the pretty movie star over, the only thing he remembers with any clarity at all—

The only thing from that whole afternoon, _God,_ he doesn’t know why it is, but it’s _Patrick._

Patrick—and the way his voice had carried in the brisk wind as he stuck his face out the window, laughing as Jonny sped through the country lanes. Patrick, and the way the breeze had tossed his curls around until they’d become disheveled and tousled, falling about his face. Patrick, and the way he’d squeezed Jonny’s shoulder on the way back to the hotel, like he’d been proud of Jonny for having a bit of fun for once, even though he hadn’t even been the one to ask him in the first place.

He had egged Jonny on, sure, but shouldn’t Jonny be thinking about Nina, and how her voice had been an interested murmur, and how she had watched Jonny so closely, and how beautiful she’d been, standing in the light of the Naples sun? She’d been the one flirting the entire time. She’d given him her card at the end of the ride and told him to give her a call, or come meet her the next time he was in Paris. She’d been the instigator.

Jonny doesn’t even remember what she’d been wearing.

He sits on his bed in his hotel room that night, halfway through shoving his things into a suitcase, preparing to return to England tomorrow with the team. The thought continues to wear him down, even as he rubs a hand over his face, feeling exhausted from just wondering.

“Fuck,” Jonny breathes. “This isn’t happening.”

He can’t. It’s not—it’s not fucking possible. This shouldn’t be happening—but who is he kidding? It’s been happening for years, now. Retrospectively, he recognises it for what it is, the slow progression from curiosity to intrigue to familiarity to—

To attraction.

Jonny swallows around the lump in his throat, and feels the need to hit something. He shouldn’t be thinking these things. He shouldn’t. Because it’s wrong.

And he knows it’s wrong, he’s known since early summers back home, younger and more naive and not knowing of how the world works. He’s known since he heard the way his family talked about people like that, since he saw the way his friends had treated people like that.

People like… like _him._

Even if he does accept it, after all these years, to some degree, he still can’t just make himself forget about the way he feels.

And Patrick’s not just anyone. He’s not just some lonely stranger in a crowded city that Jonny’s met in a bar. He’s not just another driver—not anymore. He’s the closest thing to a best friend that Jonny has. It’s almost ridiculous just how attached they’ve become to each other, considering how they started out.

Jonny suddenly and desperately wants a stiff drink. God knows he needs one right now.

Besides, he tells himself, Patrick could never feel the same way. Patrick isn’t interested in men. Patrick has a girl waiting for him back in England, tall, gorgeous, and distinctly female. And even then, he’s still flirting unabashedly with women wherever he goes.

He could never feel the same way about _Jonny._

Jonny gives up on packing, kicking his bag off his bed and letting it clatter to the ground carelessly. He tucks his feet under the sheets, stares at the ceiling, and thinks about the name-card that’s resting in the pocket of his suit jacket.

He thinks about it again, when he’s returned to London.

He thinks about it when he sees Patrick with his model girlfriend, when he sees them kiss, when he catches Patrick’s hand on her hip.

He thinks about it especially when the media starts to print marriage rumours.

Patrick hasn’t said anything about marrying her. Then again, why would he tell Jonny?

And, what if it’s true? What if he really does do it?

 _Guess I just need someone to make me settle,_ Patrick answers, when some reporters had asked him about his relationship with Suzy, whether he’d consider settling down at all. _Who knows? Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s not. Who knows._

That night, Jonny takes the name-card out and gives Nina a call. He doesn’t say anything to anybody when she comes down to London to shoot for a movie, doesn’t say anything when they make plans to meet.

He doesn’t say anything until Patrick catches him leaving the flat, dressed to the nines, about to meet Nina for an evening out. Patrick looks oddly unsettled when Jonny tells him who he’s having dinner with, but he doesn’t speak a word either, and just watches Jonny go without a single jab or quip at Jonny’s expense.

(It’s not possible, anyway.)

Nina’s stunning. She’s sleek, she’s smart, she’s not afraid to say what she wants to say.

He feels absolutely nothing for her, but he tries anyway.

Jonny drinks his wine, smiles his smiles, and at the end of the night, asks her out once more.

 

 

**_London, England; 1974_ **

Somehow, things start to change.

They’re still living in the same flat, but they start to see each other less, somehow. Jonny starts to see Nina more often, especially since she’s shooting a second movie here, and isn’t about to leave so soon. He figures Patrick would appreciate the time alone with Suzy. He figures that it’d be better if he just let them have the space.

Eventually, Jonny tells Patrick that he’s found a place nearby, just a few streets down.

“You’re… what, moving out?” Patrick’s brow furrows. “Why?”

Jonny doesn’t say, _it’s because I can’t keep being around you and your girlfriend._ “I’ve overstayed,” he says instead, “I probably should’ve moved out a long time ago. And doesn’t Suzy want to live with you?”

“Yeah… but, Suzy and I… we’re not—”

“It’d be better for all of us,” Jonny says, and he looks away before he can see the look on Patrick’s face, before he can convince himself otherwise, before Patrick can somehow say something that’ll make Jonny stay.

“Okay, then.” Patrick sounds odd, like he’s not quite convinced that what he’s saying is really what he means, but he shrugs, and nods. “Let me know if you need help moving.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Pat,” Jonny says, and Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

They’re fine. They’re still friends.

Jonny moves out, watches Suzy move into the place he’s just vacated, and he takes Nina to enough events that the press start to notice.

They’re fine. They’re still friends.

Nothing has to change.

 

 

**_Fiorano Modenese, Italy; 1974_ **

From the second he arrives to the moment he steps foot on the testing track, he can barely believe it.

Jonathan Toews, Scuderia Ferrari. It’s real. It’s his, now, the words and the team and everything that comes along with it. His shot to drive for a big team.

Then, he gets into the car.

“It’s terrible,” he says. No beating around the bush. “What the hell? This is this season’s car?”

The Ferrari engineers’ mouths fall open. “You can’t say that,” one of them states, clearly offended.

“Why not?”

“Here we go,” Seabs mutters to Brandon, who’s gotten used to this by now.

“It’s a Ferrari!” the same engineer says, completely aghast.

“It’s a shitbox,” Jonny says flatly. “There’s massive understeer, and the weight distribution is a disaster. I’ve seen better karts than this. This is ridiculous. You’ve got all these amazing facilities, and you make a car like this?” Jonny pauses, and glances over at his guys. “I’m thinking the car could be maybe five, six tenths up, if we made it lighter.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Another one of the engineers, who’d been standing behind the first guy who’d spoken, frowns. “We’ve done everything we can to get it to what it is.”

“How much does she weigh?” Seabs asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“600 kilos. Engine alone weighs 190.”

“What horsepower are you getting, 490?”

“450.”

“That’s nowhere near enough,” Jonny says. That’s much too slow. Just as slow as the BRM had been, and that had been a real piece of shit car that he’d had to drag to the finish line far too many times. He’s not letting this one be the same. “Needs to be 500 at the very least.”

“We could take the weight off the engine,” Brandon suggests, looking thoughtful, “20 kilos lighter would probably give you enough returns.”

“We’ve already tried.” The engineer looks tired. Jonny feels just a little guilty for snapping at them already, but this isn’t child’s play. This is worth time, effort, money, their careers. “Tried everything. Even replaced the entire exhaust system. Barely made a difference.”

“What about magnesium parts?” Jonny asks, and it’s like a light bulb’s just gone off above everyone’s heads. “Lighter than aluminum.”

“We could alloy it with zinc, maybe.” The engineer’s nodding. “Would save the weight without losing any component stiffness.”

“Magnesium alloy cylinder block?” Seabs doesn’t look completely convinced. “There’s always the issue of corrosion. High chance of creep, if it’s not done right.”

“Then we’ll do it right, then.” The engineer looks determined, ready to do something to prove that all the work they’ve put into the car hasn’t been a complete waste. “You said it yourself, we’ve got the facilities.”

“And the budget, definitely,” Seabs says. “The skill too, I hope.”

“The team’s solid. I can promise you that.”

Jonny holds out a hand, and the engineer grasps it, shaking it firmly. “Let’s get to work, then.” He catches sight of the name-tag that’s embroidered into the man’s work overalls. “Crow?”

“Nickname. Last name’s Crawford. Call me whatever you want, as long as you don’t fuck with the work-space.”

“Jonny’s a bit of a nosey prick, though,” Seabs says, stifling a hearty chuckle, “so you’ll probably have to fend him off from the tool bench a few times.”

Crawford raises an eyebrow at Jonny. “Look, I don’t care if you’re Jonathan Toews or Wayne-goddamn-Gretzky, you’re still not touching a single bolt in this garage.”

Jonny has a feeling that this is going to be fun. “We’ll see,” he says, and Crawford shoots him another ‘I’m fucking watching you, buddy,’ look that rather strangely reminds Jonny of the kids he’d known back home who’d played goalie during little pond hockey skirmishes, with the crazy eyes and the possessiveness over their space.

Maybe in another life, eh?

For now, Jonny settles in, and gets ready to race.

 

 

The season goes decently. He manages to get the car into the points a handful of times, and so does Hossa, once they’ve tested the changes to Jonny’s car and implemented them for both cars. The lifted weight does wonders for the car’s speed. They do get that extra six tenths of a second.

It also does wonders for the team itself, once they’ve finally got something to work towards for next season, building on this year’s results.

This is what a team feels like, Jonny thinks, after each race.

Patrick’s not having the best of seasons, though. He makes several rookie mistakes, and every time Jonny tries to call him out on it, Patrick snaps back hard. And, of course, Jonny snaps back even harder.

The cycle repeats.

It’s like they’re back in F2 again, arguing on-track like they hate each other more than anyone else. Off-track, it’s a different story, of course, but—something’s weird about it, now. Patrick’s withdrawing from Jonny, and it’s noticeable.

Jonny doesn’t know what to do about it. Not when Patrick was always the one prompting contact between the two of them. Not when Patrick was always the one to draw him into conversations first. Jonny doesn’t know what to say—so he ends up not saying anything at all.

The drinking’s getting worse, too.

Jonny’s always known Patrick to be a voracious drinker. His tolerance is off the charts, and he still manages to top it each night. But Jonny starts seeing him with a bottle in his hand right after races, and once, before a race, too.

“Fuck off, Jonny,” Patrick tells him, the one and only time he confronts him about it. “You’re not my fuckin’ minder. I don’t need you telling me what I can or can’t do.”

Jonny’s ire rises before he can even think about it. “Well, I’m fucking sorry for even bothering to give a damn about you.”

“Well, _don’t,_ then,” Patrick says, and he’s walking off before Jonny can even get another word in.

It doesn’t get any better after that.

And then, one night, Nina sits him down, and tells him that she wants to talk.

 

 

**_London, England; 1974_ **

The news spreads quick, but not quick enough that Jonny catches it before he can come back to London, fresh off a testing session in Fiorano. He gets off the plane, strides right past a news-stand, and backs up just as quick as he’d gone past it, gaze disbelieving.

There’s Patrick, his face splattered across the front of several gossip rags, and someone’s left out a turned page of the sports section of one of the papers, a similar photograph. Jonny runs his fingers over the edge of the page; the words jump right out at him in glaring black serif: **KANE’S NIGHTMARE WEEKEND,** followed by the sub-heading, _‘Formula 1’s notable playboy Patrick Kane gets ejected from bar over fist-fight; rumours concerning relationship and driver status confirmed.’_

“Fuck,” Jonny murmurs, under his breath. He doesn’t know whether to be more concerned or pissed off, that Patrick’s gone and gotten himself in the papers for something like this. At the same time—driver status? He hadn’t heard anything about Patrick having trouble with his team.

 _Not like you would know,_ a little voice in Jonny’s head reminds him, _you two haven’t been speaking properly since you left._

He stares at the photograph. It’s blurry, but it’s obviously Patrick—he’s being dragged out the bar by the arms, and he looks completely wasted. It’s something Jonny’s seen before, but not like this. He doesn’t recognise the look on Patrick’s face. And that scares him more than anything.

Anything he’d been feeling just completely gives way to complete distress, and Jonny realizes that he shouldn’t just stand here like an numbskull in the middle of the airport, staring at a news-stand covered with Patrick’s face while he thinks about the actual Patrick.

Jonny flags down a cab, mentally reminding himself to phone his agent to apologise for skipping out on that meeting he’s about to miss. He can always reschedule. This—this can’t wait.

 

 

He still has his key to the flat. He’d thought about returning it numerous times over, but things just kept getting in the way. The key slots in easily, and Jonny pushes the door open slowly, calling, “Patrick? It’s Jonny.”

There’s no reply. Jonny shuts the door behind him, and takes his shoes off, but not bothering with his coat and scarf. “Pat,” he calls again, wandering through the flat. It feels too quiet, despite the fact that there’s a record playing softly in the living room.

Jonny feels a jolt of something weird in his stomach when he recognises the record. It’s one of Jonny’s; he must’ve missed it when he was packing to move out. Their collections had always ended up getting jumbled together whenever Patrick went through the entire shelf to find one song. _My man don’t love me. Treats me awfully mean. My man, he don’t love me. Treats me awfully mean._

He dips into the kitchen to find nobody there. Billie Holiday continues to croon. _But when he starts in to love me, he’s so fine and mellow._

Jonny stops at the doorway to the back-room. “Pat,” he says softly, hand on the doorknob.

Patrick’s sitting by the window, accompanied by his birds. One’s perched on the windowsill, another on his wrist. The other three are still in their cage, but the door’s open, and they just peeps inquisitively at Jonny before going back to pecking at their food.

There’s an empty bottle beside him. No glasses. Another bottle that’s halfway to finished. Jonny shuts the door behind him, and move towards him. Patrick doesn’t look over, still gazing wearily out the window.

He looks defeated. This isn’t the Patrick Kane he’s used to seeing. It’s not the Patrick Kane he knows.

_Love will make you drink and gamble. Make you stay out all night long._

“I fucked up, Jonny,” he says, before Jonny can take another step. “I fucked up real good.”

“Talk to me,” Jonny says, needing to know what’s got him like this, so that he can get him out of it. “What happened?”

“Where do I start?” Patrick meets his eyes. “Suzy left. Said I wasn’t good enough for her. She’s definitely right about that. Then, when it hit the papers—y’know, I just wanted to get so fuckin’ wasted that I didn’t have to remember just how badly I treated her, and then some asshole walks up and starts talkin’ shit, and I just—that couldn’t—I couldn’t let that go, Jonny. Then the team owners called.” Patrick rubs at his face, looking exhausted just recalling the events. “I’m getting fuckin’ dropped. They said they couldn’t have someone this unstable off-track driving for them. It’s a bad image.”

That’s—a lot. Jonny hadn’t known about any of it.

He should’ve, though. He should’ve.

“They’re right,” Patrick says, and Jonny wants to tell him, no, they’re not right, he’s not unstable and he’s not a bad person, he’s just flawed—everyone is fucked up, some way or another, and Jonny knows Patrick. “I’ve been pretty shit these past few months. Or years, I s’pose, if you wanna count all the nights I’ve spent drinking myself out of my mind.”

Patrick adds, “She had every right to leave, too. I knew we weren’t going to last. But I was too much of a goddamned coward to say anything.”

“But…” Jonny hesitates. “You were going to marry her, weren’t you?”

Patrick stares at him like he’s mad. “Marry her,” he repeats, sounding surprised, “Christ, Jonny, you sound like the press. I couldn’t—” he stops, swallowing hard, before continuing, “That was never an option.” He shakes his head. “I never loved her. Fuck, I can’t believe she stayed for so long, even knowing that I’d never—but I couldn’t. Not when—”

Jonny waits, but Patrick doesn’t complete his sentence. “Not when?”

Patrick shakes his head again. “Nothing,” he says, voice small. It’s silent now. The record’s stopped playing. It’s just the sound of their breathing, and the quiet chirps of the budgies, who are edging closer to Jonny, wanting a bit of petting, probably.

He obliges the nearest, rubbing a finger along the back of its head. It crooks its neck and trills happily.

Patrick smiles. “She’s always liked you best,” he says, before suddenly switching tacks. “Hey. Why did you come?”

“What?” Jonny frowns. “Pat. I wasn’t about to let you deal with this shit yourself.”

“Yeah, but.” Patrick exhales. “You left. I thought it was just another thing I did. Drove you away the way I did everyone else.”

“I thought you needed space. That I was getting in the way.”

“In the way?” Patrick blinks. “Jonny. You’re my best friend. You were never in the way. And then… you just wanted to move out, and I thought, well, fuck. I fucked up again. Besides, you and Nina—”

“Um,” Jonny says, cutting in, “there actually isn’t a me and Nina, anymore.”

Patrick stares at him. “What? Since when?”

“We ended things some time ago.”

She’d known, in the end, that she wasn’t what Jonny was looking for. She understood, strangely enough, telling him that they could still be companions. He made for an excellent dinner partner still, she told him, and Jonny had smiled, relieved. Grateful, even.

“Oh,” Patrick says, and something in his expression clears up. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be.” Jonny shrugs. “We were never in love. It was just… convenience, I think.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “I get you.”

They sit in silence, but Jonny doesn’t want to let it draw out for too long. He doesn’t want to let the moment turn awkward before he can make things right.

So, he reaches over, and curls his fingers over Pat’s shoulder, the first time he’s touched Pat in what feels like weeks.

Patrick starts a little, glancing up so quickly that he nearly jolts one of the budgies off the windowsill. “Jonny?”

“C’mon, Pat,” he says, meeting his eyes, “you need to take a shower and a nap. You look like absolute shit.”

Patrick laughs, a little taken aback by the suddenness of Jonny’s action. “Alright,” he says. “Alright, Jonny.”

Jonny tugs Patrick up from the windowsill, and steers him toward the door.

When Patrick’s gone into the bathroom, Jonny takes a moment to set the birds back into their cages, and pick up the bottles strewn everywhere. It’s a real fucking mess. Jonny doesn’t want to know how many drinks Patrick’s gone through in the past three days.

He stops in the living room, noticing something different about the wall of photographs.

Right beside the photo of the two of them on the Albi podium, a new one’s been squeezed in, just cutting off the edge of one of the photos of Patrick and his family.

It’s Patrick and Jonny again, but he doesn’t recognise where it’s from. It’s low-lit and soft, all dampened yellows and warm browns. They’re in a bar somewhere, Jonny doesn’t quite know which one.

He’s smiling, he notices. Not quite at anything in particular, his eyes focused on something off-camera.

Patrick’s looking at him, in the photograph. There’s something fond on his face, something in his eyes that makes Jonny feel like he’s intruding on their past selves’ privacy, somehow. It makes Jonny wish that he could see that expression for himself, not caught in a photograph, but on Patrick’s own features in real life.

It makes Jonny ache, just the thought of having Patrick look at him like that.

Just him. No one else.

It’s not the time for thoughts like these, though. Jonny pushes them back into that part of his mind where he keeps the rest of those feelings, and thinks about what he’s going to say to Patrick once he’s out of the shower. How he’s going to get Patrick to ease up on the drinking. How he’s going to get Patrick to see that it’s not the end of the world just yet.

 _One step at a time,_ he thinks, and he goes to set the bottles in the sink.

 

 

**_Woking, England; 1975_ **

Jonny taps his fingers along the side of the door.

It’s surprisingly sunny today. He pushes his aviators back into place and whistles tunelessly along to the radio playing _Band On The Run,_ not looking at anything in particular while he waits.

Patrick had promised it wouldn’t take long. He’d continued his tradition of making Jonny drive him to places, just like when they were still flat-sharing. “My car’s in the shop,” Patrick had said, pouting. “C’mon, Jonny, you can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to see Woking before.”

“McLaren HQ, yeah. Woking, probably not. I’ve had enough of the English countryside to last me a lifetime.”

“Shut up,” Patrick had said, “get your keys,” and that was that.

Jonny had elected to stay in the car, saying that it’d be strange if he walked in with Patrick, even if he did want to see the inside of McLaren’s base of operations for himself. It hasn’t been very long, though, it’s only been twenty minutes.

The door opens unceremoniously, halting Jonny’s thought process, just as he’s considering getting out to stretch his legs. “I’m gonna have to come back to iron out more details, but the contract’s basically signed,” Patrick tells him, beaming so brightly that the sun isn’t even competition anymore. “You’re lookin’ at McLaren’s new number one, Jonny-boy!”

“Good. You’ll actually be able to match me in a race, now.” At Patrick’s unimpressed face, Jonny laughs, and adds, “Congrats, bud.”

The smile reappears on Patrick’s face. Jonny is glad to see it.

It’s only been a couple of months since Jonny showed up at the flat to find Patrick in that awful state he’d been in. Jonny remembers the days after, all long and difficult. A lot of not-talking, mostly, and a few attempts to actually sit down and address things. Neither of them are really the talk-about-feelings-until-we’ve-gotten-everything-out-in-the-open types.

Even that one time where they’d gotten drunk together after Jonny had lost his TCR seat had mostly been them reminiscing about older times, and Patrick telling Jonny that he didn’t have to worry about finding a ride.

The tables have really quite turned, this time.

But, they’re here now. Patrick looks bright and free, as Jonny drives them back to London. He’s got a ride; they both do. The media’s died down a whole lot more ever since Patrick went on record apologising to the pub, and saying only good things about Suzy and the Penske Racing Team.

It hasn’t been all easy-peasy, though. Patrick’s had a rough couple of weeks, trying to scale the drinking back to something more manageable, but it’s getting better each day.

And he’s here now.

Jonny, on the other hand, is having a fantastic start to the season, having won a couple of races in the Ferrari 312T, an amazing step-up from last year’s car. The entire team’s worked hard over the off-season. He’s not about to disappoint them.

It’s going to be his year. He can feel it.

“Hey,” Patrick says, looking over at Jonny, still smiling sunnily. _“Our year,_ okay? I’m not letting you get away with yourself that easily.”

Jonny grins right back at him. “Bring it on.”

 

 

**_Monte Carlo, Monaco; 1975_ **

He always says that he takes the 20% risk. No more.

Never any little bit more, because this will always happen: Somebody dies, and everybody realizes that it could’ve been them. It could’ve been their car that oversteered too hard into a solid metal barrier. It could’ve been their car that experienced a brake failure in the middle of taking a high-speed corner. It could’ve been them, unlucky enough to just be in the way of another person coming too fast, unable to stop.

That ‘could have been’ became a ‘did happen’ for somebody, this morning. Someone that they knew, even though he hadn’t been an actual F1 driver. A kid who’d been testing for a backmarker team. Just a test driver.

Not anymore.

Death takes, and consumes, and deprives people of joy. It gives them grief instead, grief for a loved one, for a friend, for a fellow racing driver, who hadn’t gotten the opportunity to make more of the life he’d been granted.

They’d stopped the morning’s practice. It hadn’t felt right to continue.

Jonny curls and uncurls his fingers, a glass of something dark and warm in between his palms. The other drivers, especially those who’d known Petey, had wanted to be together for the night. A show of solidarity. A way to let the night pass without having to spend it alone.

He hadn’t known Petey very well. He’d been a test driver for March, Jonny’s old team, that had returned to Formula 1 racing after a few years of not being in the sport. He’d only seen him around a couple of times, but Jonny vaguely remembers him being a cheerful guy, excited about getting into an F1 car, excited for his chance to finally come.

Patrick’s knee rests against his, under the table. Jonny doesn’t dare move even an inch. He knows Patrick had been friendly with Petey, that they’d drank together on a few occasions.

Patrick has been subdued the entire day. But, he’s also been more touchy-feely than usual. Jonny can’t remember a moment the entire day where he’d been in the same area as Patrick, and not been touching him, whether it be a hand on a shoulder, arms brushing together, or knees knocking together under a table, where nobody can see.

Patrick hasn’t touched a drink in a week, and he isn’t going to tonight, he’s told Jonny already. Patrick’s been running his thumb along the rim of his glass of water the entire night, chewing on his lip wordlessly. Not quite participating in conversation, unless Jonny subtly prods him to reply to whoever’s said something to him.

The only thing Patrick’s been doing, really, is looking over at Jonny. Like he’s been wanting to ask Jonny something, or say something to him. And every time Jonny catches him staring, Patrick quickly averts his gaze, like he’s changed his mind.

Eventually, Jonny leans close, and asks, “You wanna take a walk? Get some air?”

Patrick nods. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah. Think that’d be good.”

They say their goodbyes to the other guys, before heading off into the mild Monaco night.

It’s not far to the hotel, or to anywhere at all, really. The coast is right there, and the track is silent, at this time of night. The streets are oddly quiet, and so is the sea. Perhaps they’re grieving, too.

“You alright?” Jonny finally asks, as they wander into a little back passage, a shortcut to the hotel. “You’ve been quiet, tonight.”

Patrick’s got his hands in his pockets, but as they walk, his arm brushes against Jonny’s a few times. “M’fine. I just… I’ve been thinking…” Patrick inhales sharply, before continuing, “D’you—d’you ever think about taking a huge chance and doing something you’ve always been afraid of doing, even though you’re not sure if it’ll work out, just because you’re even more afraid that you might lose that chance forever?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Patrick says quietly, “that I don’t want to lose you, Jonny. That’s what I mean.”

Jonny stops in his tracks. “Pat?” he says, unsure if what he’s hearing is what he thinks he’s hearing. “Patrick,” he repeats, stopping in his tracks when Patrick doesn’t answer.

Then, Patrick’s hands are on his arms, and he’s pushing Jonny sideways and backwards—

Jonny’s back comes right up against a brick wall, and Patrick kisses him.

Something in his mind stops functioning for half a second, and then, Jonny’s eyes fall shut, and he kisses back, reaching up to tug Patrick closer, the way he’s wanted to forever.

His mouth is warm. It’s softer than Jonny had imagined, soft against his own lips, but the scrape of Patrick’s stubble against his face sends a hot flash of emotion down his spine, the contrast something he has no reference for. It’s unfamiliar, but Jonny recognises the feeling for what it is, the same one he’s been harbouring for months, now filling the carved-out space in his chest with each brush of Patrick’s thumb across Jonny’s nape.

Patrick’s tongue catches the inside of his lip, and Jonny feels like he’s going to burn up from just that one little touch. It’s not enough, not at all—he opens up more to Patrick, angling his head just enough to let Patrick kiss him deeper, to feel the way Patrick curls their tongues together, so intimate and so full of feeling that Jonny thinks he could forget every other kiss he’s ever experienced in his life, because none of them have ever felt the way this feels: real, wanting, completely overwhelming.

Jonny pulls away to catch his breath, and Patrick lets out a quiet sigh. Jonny tips his head, catching Patrick’s cheek with the tip of his nose. “Pat,” he says, and Patrick tightens his grasp on Jonny’s arm. He’s shivering. So is Jonny. It’s definitely not because of the cold. “Pat,” he repeats, “talk to me. Please.”

“It could’ve been you,” Patrick whispers, and he’s got his eyes closed, like he can’t face Jonny right now, saying these things, the words Jonny never thought he’d hear. “It could’ve been me. Thinking about this morning, it just made everything more real. I—I know, that’s a fuckin’ terrible reason to do this, but if it wasn’t gonna be now—I dunno, Jonny, I dunno when I would’ve. You tell me that you would’ve, even.”

Jonny shakes his head. “I always thought—” he starts, hesitant, “I never thought you’d feel the same way. You had all those girls. You had Suzy. All those years, _fuck_ —I never thought you would.”

“They were never you, though.” Patrick looks like he can’t believe that he’s admitting this. Jonny can’t quite believe it either. “I don’t know what we’re doing, but… I want this.”

Jonny kisses him, this time, and Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat that makes Jonny stumble, makes his heart feel like it’s going to pound straight out of his chest, fuck, Patrick made that sound because of _him._ “Me too,” Jonny says hoarsely, “God, me too.”

The sound of a car honking in the street makes them pull apart abruptly, but when it looks like nobody is about to approach them, Patrick curls a hand around Jonny’s wrist and slides his hand down to tuck their palms together, sighing again.

Jonny’s chest just feels so _full._ Sleepy-satisfied in a way that just feels right.

He wants more. He wants to kiss Patrick again, and again, and again, now that he knows he can. He wants to kiss Patrick everywhere, and put his hands all over his skin, and feel his pulse under his fingertips, just so he can know that this is really happening.

They stand in the dark, holding onto each other, until Jonny whispers, “Come back to my room with me.”

 

 

Nothing else happens, that night. But Jonny’s perfectly alright with that.

They lie on the bed, curled up together. It’s enough just to be touching like this, wrapped up around each other, hands in hands and ankles entwined. Jonny never thought he’d even have this. Neither had Patrick, apparently.

He presses soft kisses to Patrick’s neck, and lets him clutch at Jonny’s shirt. Jonny runs a hand down Patrick’s back in soothing motions. Outside, the ocean has finally made itself known, the evening tide lapping at the docks, lulling them both into a strange calm.

A strand of sadness still lingers that night, but underneath that, there’s something that feels new and unpolished, something that’s finally surfaced with the night’s revelations. It feels like something more than mere affection. Something real. Something good.

Jonny doesn’t want to give it a name just yet. Just in case.

But he looks at Patrick, chin tucked into the curve of Jonny’s shoulder, and he knows.

They fall asleep that way, to the sound of steady waves, and each other’s breathing.

 

 

**_Monza, Italy; 1975_ **

With only half a point to go, he takes pole.

Ferrari locks out the front row, and Jonny knows, if he takes this race, or even if he finishes within the top three, that’ll be enough.

He’ll be World Champion.

Ten races ago, it was only a possibility. Now, as Jonny lines up on the grid, it’s this close to becoming a reality. No longer just a dream.

When the lights go out, Hossa manages to overtake him, getting a better start, but Jonny follows close behind, making sure to keep the rest behind him.

It’s an exhausting race. The car starts to lose power two-thirds of the way through, but Jonny pushes hard, and manages to bring the car home to snatch a podium position, just behind Hossa, who receives the checkered flag to thunderous applause, and Lecavalier for UOP Shadow in second.

Jonny has no words, absolutely no words, for the feeling he has when he passes the finish line. He drives back to the pits, and there’s already a rising sea of red, roaring their excitement, their joy, at having a Ferrari driver take it all.

And in Monza too, where the tifosi, the Ferrari fans, are at its most passionate.

Jonny couldn’t have imagined it better.

He brings the car into parc fermé. His hands are trembling as he takes them off the steering wheel. The cheers around him are overwhelmingly loud as he gets out of the car.

As he pulls his helmet off, he spots Patrick getting out of his McLaren.

Patrick catches his gaze immediately, and for a long moment, Jonny thinks Patrick’s going to turn away. But Patrick tugs his helmet off too, smiles, and lifts his hand, curling his fingers into a fist. _You did it, Jonny,_ he’s saying, no words necessary. _Jonny, you did it._

Jonny smiles back, wider than ever, and echoes the motion. _Thank you._

Before he can even look away, his team has flung themselves right into him.

 _“You fucking did it, Jonny!”_ Seabs has to scream the words at him; Jonny can barely hear him over the raucous celebration. _“You’re the World Champion!”_

Jonny can’t even begin to express his gratitude towards the team, so he just hugs them all, even as his entire team cheers madly, like they’re all drunk already without even having a single sip.

He saves the podium champagne for them.

 

 

The rest of the day is a whirlwind. There’s celebrations, and press conferences, and media appearances, and the eventual packing up, at the end of the day. The entire team is in high spirits, chattering and laughing the whole way through. Jonny’s never felt better to see the work they’ve all put in pay off.

Jonny’s leaning against the doorway of the garage, when he hears the soft thud of footsteps behind him. “Hey, champ,” comes Patrick’s voice. “You done for the night?”

“Yes,” Jonny says, and God, he wishes he could just reach over and kiss Patrick right now, he’s so goddamn happy, but there are still people around, and he refrains from doing anything more than move closer to Patrick. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Lead the way,” Patrick says, motioning down the empty track.

They walk a distance down the track before anybody says anything. The skies are just the slightest bit cloudy tonight, but the air is cooler than it had been in the afternoon, brushing through the trees and tugging at their sleeves gently.

“So, Jonathan Toews.” Patrick looks up at him through his lashes, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “How’s it feel being World Champion? Everybody must be fallin’ right over themselves to talk to ya now, aren’t they?”

“Sure,” Jonny says, “but I’ve been waiting to talk to one person in particular the whole day, actually.”

“Really, now?”

“Yes,” Jonny says, staring right at Patrick until Patrick laughs.

“Smooth, Toews.” Patrick looks around, and when he seems to be satisfied with how alone they are, he slides a hand over Jonny’s nape and tugs him down for a quick kiss. Jonny rocks forward on his heels, wanting more, but Patrick pulls away and chuckles. “There’ll be more of that later. Gotta congratulate you properly, after all.”

“Yeah?” Jonny murmurs, and he runs a hand down Patrick’s side, before letting it fall. “Hey. Next year, alright? This year doesn’t count, you lost about half of it not driving.”

“Yeah,” Patrick responds, scuffing his shoe along the track, picking up a bit of rubber. “You’re really gonna have to look out for yourself, by the way, since I’m gonna be taking that title from you.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” Jonny shoves at him, and Patrick elbows him back, starting another scuffle that ends with Patrick in a head-lock, attempting to wriggle free by kicking Jonny in the shin. “Jesus, okay, letting go,” Jonny hisses, and Patrick sticks his tongue out at him. “You’re actually a six-year-old, aren’t you?”

“Says the one who started the fight.” Patrick grins, and slings an arm around Jonny’s shoulders. “Hey, Jonny. Let’s get outta this place, huh? Got a promise to keep.”

Jonny’s skin prickles with heat at the thought of it, and he whirls the two of them around, one hand over Patrick’s wrist as he walks them back to the pits.

 

 

**_São Paulo, Brazil; 1976_ **

The new season comes, and Jonny prepares to defend his title for the first time.

He knows it’s going to be a challenge. Many of the teams have gotten their act together with the latest change in regulations, have built cars that have the potential to go far in the championship run this year. Jonny knows the Ferrari’s still on the top, but he’s going to be put to the test.

Especially now that Patrick’s in a revised, well-designed McLaren-Ford. A fast McLaren, with enough pace to take pole for the very first race of the season. Jonny’s alongside him on the front row, but he can’t help scowling at the fact that Patrick had beaten him by less than a third of a second.

“Let’s see just whose season it’s gonna be, Jonny,” Patrick calls from across the pits, and Jonny flips him off. He knows Patrick’s his biggest competition this season. Hossa’s reliable, and Jonny knows Ferrari is counting on the both of them to bring the manufacturer’s cup home for the second year in a row, but Jonny’s the clear number one now.

And, as for Patrick—

They might spend their nights together, but Jonny’s not letting Patrick go so easily.

They’re still racing drivers. It’s what they do. Everything else is secondary, even if you have to race your best friend—or your lover.

Jonny still finds it hard to believe, after the months that have passed, that they’re doing this. He knows they’ll have to hide this for as long as they have to, but it’s worth it.

It’s worth it when he gets to touch Patrick whenever he wants when they’re alone together. No more pining or staring or just longing away for something he’d thought was an impossibility.

Now, Patrick tucks in much closer when they’re on the couch in either of their places, resting his head on Jonny’s shoulder, only half-paying attention to what’s playing on the television until it turns half-past seven and Jonny has to give up the clicker because _Coronation Street_ is on.

(“Not a single word,” Patrick tells him defiantly, a little pink-cheeked, but Jonny has to admit that it’s not a terrible show. He can see sometimes why Patrick’s so stuck on it. Otherwise, it’s just nice to melt into the cushions after a long day, while Patrick shifts closer and closer with each passing minute, until he’s practically in Jonny’s lap.)

It’s worth it, when he gets to wake up in the mornings next to Patrick, whether they be in England or Spain or Belgium or Monaco or wherever else their careers take them, and see the way he nudges his nose sleepily into his pillow, curls falling over his forehead, plastered to his cheek, as the sun peeks through the curtains and draws golden lines across Patrick’s bare shoulders.

Jonny spends a lot of time just watching him.

On the morning of the race, he’s woken up by a warm hand resting on his hip, and the soft, careful press of lips against the back of his neck, and the lightest scrape of teeth between his shoulder blades.

“Mornin’,” Patrick murmurs, lazily pushing his fingers down into Jonny’s shorts. Jonny makes a quiet huff in the back of his throat, arching into his grip almost instantaneously. “Ready for me to whoop your ass on track today?”

“If you even manage to get close enough,” Jonny responds, words still slurry, but he leans back into Patrick anyway, turning his head to catch Patrick’s mouth with his, even as he reaches back to run his hand down Patrick’s naked back, palm skimming along the curve of his ass.

They’re both late for the morning’s driver briefing, in the end.

It’s still worth it.

 

 

The race is a near perfect one for Jonny.

Hossa jumps both of them at the start, the way he usually manages to whenever he’s got a clear line of exit between the cars in front of him, just slamming his foot down and speeding off ahead while everyone rolls off.

He doesn’t let that slide, though. Jonny fights the entire way for position, alternating between first, second, third and fourth multiple times, as Hossa, Patrick, and one of the Shadow drivers do the same.

The Shadow driver’s just moved up into second when Jonny sees him dive into the next corner too tightly. He ends up clipping Hossa’s front wing, taking some of it off.

Jonny speeds right past them, taking the opportunity to overtake the both of them in one fell swoop. Hossa ends up heading into the pits for repairs, and the Shadow driver gets back on pace, but by then, Jonny in first place, with Patrick playing catch-up in second.

He loses sight of the other two in his mirrors when the race is about to come to an end, and crosses the finish line to successfully defend his title for the very first race.

“What happened to the other two?” Jonny asks, when he tugs his helmet off, beckoning Brandon over to take his things as he heads up to the podium. “They were right behind me, how did Giroux and Patches overtake them?”

“Throttle stuck, for Patrick. He crashed.” Brandon looks just a little dismayed; he’s become close to the rest of the McLaren junior engineers, and he always finds it a shame when Patrick doesn’t finish in the points, but Jonny’s win still has him excited. “Auvitu spun out on some oil.”

“He alright? Pat, I mean,” Jonny says, still having not seen Patrick in the pits yet.

“Sharpy said he’s bruised up, but he’s fine.” There’s an odd look on Brandon’s face, but it disappears in a flash. “You can go look for him when you’re done bringing that trophy back to us.”

Jonny lifts an eyebrow. “And where did that even come from?”

Brandon matches that eyebrow lift, and it’s a perfect impression of Crow’s expression for when he’s especially done with Jonny for the day, or when Jonny’s asked for too many minor fixes on the car that don’t actually require fixing. Jonny is actually very impressed. “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” he calls, as Jonny makes his way to where everyone is waiting for the podium placers.

 

 

He goes searching for Patrick right after the ceremony, handing the trophy and the champagne over to the team before heading for the McLaren trailers.

Jonny finds Patrick sitting on a table in one of them, legs swinging off the edge as he watches a post-race analysis on a little television next to him. Beside him, Sharp, one of the McLaren mechanics, is pointing out what happened to the Shadow that had spun out.

“Patrick, hey,” he says, getting their attention, and when Patrick sees it’s him, he brightens up a little. “You alright?”

“A-okay, Jonny.” Patrick points at his knee. “Just a little banged up. I’ll be good as new in a day or two.”

“Good,” Jonny says, relieved. “That’s good.”

Sharp glances between the two of them, before saying, “Right, then, I’ll just leave you two to it.” He waves as he climbs out of the trailer, muttering something about weird attachments under his breath.

Jonny doesn’t know what that was, but, alright.

Patrick’s watching him, expression thoughtful. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning Jonny over, and Jonny looks around, not seeing anyone in sight. The trailer’s parked in a way that has the open door facing a wall, and Jonny doesn’t think anyone else will be coming along.

He steps over, until he’s standing right in front of Patrick, who wriggles back a little to make space for Jonny to squeeze in between his knees, close enough for Patrick to bump their noses together.

Jonny rests his palms on the table, on either side of Patrick’s thighs, and he says, “Pretty reckless behaviour, isn’t this.” Even though he knows they’ve got a spare few minutes of time alone together, the trailer is still open, and anyone could just walk up.

He finds that he doesn’t quite care, right now. Maybe it’s the adrenaline of winning a race, still rushing through his veins, not yet worn off. Maybe it’s because Patrick is tipping his chin down to kiss him, his mouth hot and wet under Jonny’s, and he just can’t find it in himself to be anywhere else but here.

“Only when I’m around you,” Patrick murmurs, and he jerks a little when Jonny’s hip bumps against his bruised knee. “You’re real hard to resist, don’tcha know.”

Jonny runs a palm over Patrick’s knee apologetically, before brushing his mouth over Patrick’s again, the other hand splayed across Patrick’s jaw. He runs his thumb under Patrick’s eye, and says, “Sorry about your race.”

“S’alright,” Patrick responds. “Next race. I’ll get you in Kyalami.”

 

 

**_Madrid, Spain; 1976_ **

There’s a lot of talk around the paddock that weekend, not because of any driver in particular, but because of Tyrrell, who show up for the race with the new P34, a blue and white six-wheeler car, that draws just as many stunned looks as laughs.

“Six wheels,” Duncan Keith is saying incredulously, as Seabs just continues to stare at the car that’s parked in the Tyrrell garage. _“Six-wheels._ And look at how small they are. Must be 10 inches wide, or something.”

“Still can’t believe they’re actually entering the damn thing,” Sharp coughs. “I thought it was a joke when they took the tarp off it at Heathrow last year.”

“Looked good when they ran it at Silvo,” one of the guys from Martini Racing comments. “This one’s got a longer wheelbase, though, look.”

“How much speed do you think they’re going to get on the straights?” Brandon asks, already halfway through penciling in observations about the car in the little carry-notebook he brings everywhere.

“Who knows? We’ll have to wait and see.”

Just behind the mixed group of curious engineers, Jonny turns to Giroux, the driver who’s supposed to be piloting the radical-looking car, and asks, _“What do you think about it?”_

Giroux shrugs, looking casual, but Jonny can tell that he’s a little nervous to be racing the car, judging by the way he keeps crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest. _“It’s better than I thought it would be,”_ he answers, _“I think it’s capable of winning a race or two.”_

“Fuck, really? A win?”

“Yes,” Giroux says, grinning. He’s missing a couple of teeth. Jonny vaguely recalls hearing about some fight he’d gotten into last year with one of the Lotus drivers, Crosby, after they’d come together on-track in Zolder. “It will be great.”

 _“Heard Kolzig hates it, though,”_ Jonny quips, switching back to French. _“Not too fond of how it looks?”_

“Eh.” Giroux makes a half-hearted gesture. _“He can get over himself. Join another team if he doesn’t like it. While I gain a few podiums for myself.”_

 

 

Jonny loves Jarama. It’s probably his favourite circuit right after Interlagos, and he knows each corner by heart, knows exactly how to take them and when to take them. It’s really his race to lose, not anyone else’s to win, and everyone knows that.

But he starts second on the grid, right behind Patrick for the third time this season, who’s snatched yet another pole position right out of his hands.

It’s frustrating, how blindingly quick Patrick can be over a single lap when he’s in a good car. Even when he was driving slower cars, he regularly put them within a second of the pole-sitter while his team-mates struggled to get them within the top ten. Jonny can’t help but bristle every time he sees Patrick’s name on the top of the time-sheets, narrowly edging him into second place by just a fraction of a second.

“Try harder, then maybe you’ll start somewhere that isn’t second or fourth place for once this season,” Patrick had said yesterday after qualifying, the way he gets when they’re both get into that over-competitive mood, wanting to one-up each other even though they’re still hoping the other does well.

It’s snappier than usual, probably because he’d spun out last race at Kyalami and Jonny had taken a podium.

“Fuck you,” Jonny had just said, not quite wanting to rise to the taunt, before stalking off.

Later that evening, Patrick had stood outside Jonny’s hotel room door, looking contrite, until Jonny sighed, tugged him in, and kissed him hard enough to get the message across: it’s fucking fine. They’re both drivers. Comes with the territory.

“You know it’s not going to be easy,” Jonny tells him that night, his cheek pressed to Patrick’s shoulder, fingers skimming along his stomach absently. “If we don’t get along some days, that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“S’pose so,” Patrick had said, but he hadn’t offered up any other words, and that had been that.

 

 

Jonny wishes that had just been that.

 

 

He whizzes off the start line with enough speed to steal first, displacing the McLaren into second. It doesn’t last for long, though; about twenty-six laps in, the McLaren’s started to make some aggressive moves towards Jonny, breaking much later than Jonny would’ve expected.

Jonny’s got both McLarens on his tail, but Patrick’s in the one right behind him, and he knows that if he loses this battle, he’s going to open up an opportunity for Hjalmarsson in the other McLaren to gain a place, too.

He tries his damndest. He does. But the McLarens seem to find an extra gear out of nowhere, and the second Patrick does his overtake on Jonny, there Hjalmarsson goes, squeezing right past Jonny to take the tiniest gap he can.

Jonny goes steady the rest of the way, not taking anymore chances.

It pays off for him. The McLaren of Hjalmarsson starts to blow smoke right out the back, experiencing an untimely engine failure right before the end of the race.

Jonny breezes past him into second place. Patrick takes his first win of the season.

 

 

It feels fantastic to be on the podium up there with Patrick. He’s all smiles, the garland looking huge around his smaller frame, and he sprays the champagne with a loud whoop, getting both his team and the members of the press in one go.

It’s great, until Patrick comes storming into the Ferrari garage barely an hour later, brandishing a piece of paper. “The fuck is this shit?” he asks, sounding completely enraged. “What the fuck is this supposed to be?”

Sharp trails in behind him, looking frazzled and concerned. “Peeks—”

“Don’t, Sharpy. I want to hear it from them.”

Jonny looks over from where he’d been chatting with Brandon about the Tyrrell, and he straightens up. “Pat, what are you talking ab—”

“Don’t fuckin’ patronize me, Toews. You know what you did.” The garage has fallen silent. Jonny has no idea what’s gotten into Patrick, but he hasn’t seen him angry like this in years, even as Patrick holds the sheet of paper up, reading off it. “The FIA has determined from post-race scrutineering that P. Kane’s McLaren entry has breached the current regulations with regards to wheelbase length and tire diameter and has now been _disqualified_ —you fuckin’ tell me what I’m talking about, then!”

“What?” Jonny frowns. “This is the first I’m hearing about this.”

“Yeah?” Patrick holds out the notice, hand trembling. “Then why does it name you as the challenger?”

Jonny strides forward, grabbing the FIA notice from Patrick. There, at the bottom, says _Scuderia Ferrari,_ followed by _J. Toews._ “The fuck,” he mutters, scanning the rest of it. The car’s been disqualified for being too wide; the scrutineers had measured the car post-race and found that the tires had contributed to the car being just half an inch over the limit. “Who the hell entered this in my name?”

“Oh, c’mon, now you’re shifting the blame onto somebody else?” Patrick shakes his head. “Fuck you, asshole. You can’t even own up to what you did?”

“I didn’t fucking do it,” Jonny snaps, “why would I?”

“Who knows, Jonny? Who fuckin’ knows.”

“Look,” Jonny says, taking a deep breath before continuing, “you’re being irrational. I’m—”

“Irrational— _irrational?_ You just stole our win, and I’m not getting a single point this weekend, and we’re gonna have take the fuckin’ car apart just to put it back together again to make it legal, and God knows what that’s gonna do to it!”

Neither of them say anything, gazes locked for what feels like an eternity. Jonny can see the hurt in Patrick’s eyes, and it makes him ache uneasily. He hates the way Patrick is looking at him now, like he’s betrayed Patrick’s trust, even though he hasn’t been involved in any of this. “Pat,” he says faintly, but Patrick’s not having it.

“No,” Patrick says, raising both his hands, stepping back, “no, Toews. You and your entire team can just fuck off with that underhanded shit. Especially you.” He shrugs off Sharp’s hand when he tries to reach over to him, and he walks off, just as thunderous as he’d been when he came in.

Jonny’s stunned. He—he has no idea what to say. He didn’t even know this happened. He looks down at the paper again, before raising his voice to ask the room, “Who did this?”

Everyone looks around at each other. Sharp, who’s still standing there, voices, “I wouldn’t think it was any of you. I know you all. Most of you are friends with our guys—I _know_ you wouldn’t stoop this goddamned low.”

“We wouldn’t,” Brandon says, looking absolutely stricken. “And none of us have even been near the stewards’ office or scrutineering today.”

Jonny crumples the piece of paper in his hand, and lets it fall to the ground. It feels like something in him’s sinking too. He doesn’t know how to fix this. “There isn’t anyone with the power to enter any sort of challenge in my name besides myself,” he starts cautiously, not wanting to jump too far, but who else could it have been? “And Ferrari’s team principal.”

“Fuck,” Seabs says, wincing. The team is more than aware that Ferrari is a ruthless environment, with upper management more concerned with reputation, wins, and championships than anything else. Since they’ve been aware that they have a chance to regain their former glory with their two drivers, it’s gotten much worse. “They could’ve. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“They’ve done this before,” Crow utters, looking pensive. “Four or five years ago? They cosied up to the officials and dropped some hint that a couple of the manufacturers were experimenting with some new piece of aero that they couldn’t quite get right themselves. It got banned the year after.”

Sharp exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to try to talk some sense back into him. He honest-to-God thinks that you wrote it in yourself.”

 _“I wouldn’t,”_ Jonny emphasizes, and at this point, he cares more about the fact that Patrick thinks he would do something like that, than the fact that his team is employing dirty tactics to win. “I wouldn’t. Not to him,” he repeats, quieter, and Seabs places a hand on his shoulder.

Sharp is watching him with an unreadable expression. “I know, kid,” he says, “I know.”

He leaves the garage to find Patrick. Jonny watches him go, hoping that he gets through to Patrick.

Patrick can be ridiculously stubborn when he wants to, especially when it comes to anything involving racing, and no one can sway him.

“It’ll be fine,” Seabs tells him confidently. “It’s just another fight. You two do this all the time and it turns out fine in the end.”

Jonny lets out a long breath. “Hope so,” he says, but at the same time, he’s aware that there’s been a tiny strain in their relationship ever since Jonny became World Champion, and the fact that Patrick hasn’t won a single race yet this season, even crashing out in a few, must be messing with Patrick’s head.

Seabs considers him for a moment. “Don’t worry about it,” he says patiently, “just give him time.”

Time. The one thing Jonny never feels there’s enough of.

He just nods, and goes back to helping the team review the race.

 

 

He finds out later that Patrick’s left early with his team, needing to get the car back within legality before the next race can come along. Sharp had left him a note, telling him that he might want to give Patrick some space for the next couple of days. Or however long it takes him to stop seeing red. Jonny thinks that might actually take longer than just a few days, considering previous history.

Jonny goes back to England, steps into his flat, and for the first time since the long weekend, it feels too big for just one person.

 

 

A few days go by, and Jonny still hasn’t had any luck with Patrick.

It’s more frustrating than anything else, because on one hand, he totally gets why Patrick would freak out like that, having the weight of needing to prove himself to McLaren on his shoulders. On the other hand—

Jonny still can’t believe that Patrick would think so lowly of Jonny. That he’d resort to something like that to, what, undermine Patrick’s championship run?

Did that mean he didn’t believe Jonny could do it on his own either?

Fuck. He doesn’t know what to think.

He calls Sharp, who just answers the phone sounding tired as he says, “He’s calmer now. But he’s still pretty upset about the DSQ. And the car’s not doing great now, so that’s just making things even better. Did you guys try the thing yet?”

“We did. Didn’t work, got blocked. Has McLaren filed the appeal yet?”

“Three days ago. But you know how fucking slow the FIA is when it comes to this shit.”

“Yeah.” Jonny exhales, and rubs at his temple. “Thanks, Sharpy.”

“S’alright, Toews. It’ll work out.”

 

 

**_Le Castellet, France; 1976_ **

The race at Paul Ricard ends less than satisfactory for both Jonny and Hossa.

Both their engines had failed in the middle of the race, forcing them to retire, and allowing Patrick in the McLaren to take the win, with Giroux in the Tyrrell taking second, and Marchand in the Penske completing the podium for the eighth round of the 1976 season.

The championship’s looking good for Jonny at that point. He’s at 55 points to Giroux’s 26, with Crosby, Patrick and Hossa close behind. If he keeps putting up solid performances for the rest of the year, a second championship could be a reality.

McLaren’s appeal goes through, and Patrick’s reinstated as the race winner for the Spanish GP. Jonny sees the moment they get the news; there’s a loud celebration from the McLaren garage, and Patrick’s all grins.

In the evening after the race, Patrick appears at the Ferrari garage. His timing is spot-on; only Jonny is left in the garage, just sitting beside the car, mentally going through the mistakes he’d made today and how to fix them tomorrow. He’d asked everyone to just take the night off and return to pack the garage up in the morning—they’ve been working themselves to the bone, and Jonny can see just how exhausted they all are at this point in time in the season.

Patrick stands at the door of the garage. He looks flushed, perhaps from the double victory of today’s win and the win of the appeal. It’s not, though, Jonny realizes when Patrick says, “Am I allowed to come in, or should I just stay here?” He sounds nervous, a little guilty.

Jonny immediately says, “Come in.”

Patrick pads in, and takes a seat on the floor beside Jonny, ignoring the smears of oil and dirt everywhere. “I made a mistake,” he says, “don’t say you told me so.”

“I won’t,” Jonny says, but he’s definitely thinking it.

“I just—I was so mad, and I didn’t want to hear what anyone was saying. I know it's gonna sound like an excuse, but the DNFs, and the failures... I was just so fed up, y'know? And then Sharpy and Saader sat me down and made me listen, so I did.” Patrick huffs out a breath, and his hair falls over his eyes. Jonny wants to push them back, and run his fingers through Patrick’s curls, but it’s been a few weeks since the fight and Jonny isn’t sure whether he can. “I’m sorry. I just keep fuckin’ stuff up between us, don’t I?”

Patrick’s voice is small and uncertain. Jonny gives into the urge, and he reaches over to tuck a curl behind Patrick’s ear, leaving his hand on Patrick’s cheek as he says, “It’s okay, Pat. Seriously. I get why. I would’ve been upset, too.”

“But you wouldn’t’ve made me out to be some dirty cheat, would you? And I—fuck, I can’t believe I did that. M’sorry, Jonny.” Patrick exhales. “Sorry for freezin’ you out for so long, too. I was being real dumb.”

“S’okay,” Jonny repeats, and he hears the sound of voices approaching outside. “Hey,” he says, pulling back from Patrick. “I’m travelling to Paris tomorrow for something, but after… I’ll be going to Provence for a week.” He pauses to pull the both of them up from the floor, brushing off the dirt before continuing, “Come with me?”

Just as the footsteps reach the door, Patrick says, “Alright.”

 

 

Jonny doesn’t make many big purchases. He bought the flat, and he’s gotten some sweet cars, but this place is the first thing he’s ever sunk this much money into anything.

He loves England, it’s become his home ever since he’d started racing there on the regular, but there’s something about France that makes him want to return every now and then, even outside of races.

“So this is the house,” Patrick says, walking up to the door of the little holiday cottage in the south of France that Jonny’s owned for only five months. “It’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, and he opens the door. “It is.”

“Cosy, too.” Patrick wanders around inside, taking in everything. It’s still somewhat bare, but there’s a functional kitchen, and a bed for two, and a soft sofa in front of a fireplace that’ll definitely be needed tonight, if the weather keeps getting chillier. Jonny doesn’t think it’ll snow, but the winds are definitely rather blustery here, and the temperature can drop rather low in the night.

Jonny goes to set his things away, before flopping onto the sofa, feeling exhausted just from the travel. Patrick’s still looking at everything, touching his furniture and looking at the art on the wall and tapping on the windows. Jonny feels fondness for his curiosity.

“Hey, you’ve got records here.” Patrick runs a finger down the spine of one of his Beatles albums. “Want me to put something on?”

“Go ahead.” Jonny watches him skim through the stack, pulling out one or two to scrutinise before putting back in, and finally deciding on one. “Oh, forgot I had that one.”

Patrick pulls the vinyl out of its sleeve. “It looked familiar,” he comments, putting it on to play. “Feel like I’ve probably heard this somewhere—oh.” The steady pluck of a guitar and the quiet hum of strings fill the room, as Françoise Hardy begins to croon. “Huh,” Patrick says, “I can’t remember where I’ve heard this.”

Jonny does, vaguely. He recalls a piano in the corner of a bar, somewhere in France, years ago. Someone had been playing this song. The melody is soft and sweet, and so are the words. Something you’d want to sway to, something you’d listen to with somebody you care about, to tell them that this is about them.

Patrick leans against the shelf, and says, just barely teasing, “Come dance with me, Jonny.”

Jonny snorts, but he gets up from the sofa anyway, striding forward to meet Patrick in the middle. They immediately step on each other’s feet, and Patrick yelps, curling an arm around Jonny’s middle to keep from being thrown off. “God, we’re already horrible at this.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jonny says, and he grabs one of Patrick’s hands, curling their fingers together, warm and tight. He puts the other on Patrick’s hip. Patrick still has a hold around Jonny’s middle, but he doesn’t pull away. “You wanted to dance,” Jonny murmurs, and Patrick blinks up at him. “Move, Pat.”

Patrick huffs, but he takes a step, and another step, and it’s not really dancing, more like them just circling around the area in front of the fireplace while music plays in the background, but then, Patrick moves closer, and rests his head against Jonny’s shoulder, his breath tickling Jonny’s skin, and it becomes a lot more real. More intimate.

He can feel Patrick’s warmth, through his clothes. He can feel the soft tangle of his hair under Jonny’s cheek, and he can feel the way Patrick grips at his hand like he’s afraid that Jonny will let go.

It’s overwhelming, the fullness he feels in his chest. Just everything about this—he can’t begin to describe it.

Jonny kisses Patrick’s forehead, and then, when Patrick glances up, he tilts his head down to kiss Patrick properly, just a gentle brush of lips, before the desire to become closer gets to him, and he licks into Patrick’s mouth, as if to taste him, as if to further draw out the low, quiet, satisfied hum that Patrick makes in the back of his throat as he kisses back.

They separate after a moment, and Patrick touches the tips of his fingers to Jonny’s mouth. “Romantic,” he says, sounding a little amused, a little fond. “Never thought I’d be doin’ this with you.”

Jonny kisses Patrick’s fingers. “Yeah?” he asks. “Me neither.”

Patrick makes a quiet sound. “I’m gonna make it up to you, these past couple of weeks. I promise, Jonny.”

They stay like that for a long time, until the record runs to its end.

“I know we’re not always going to be okay,” Jonny says, not letting go of Patrick, “and we’re going to fight a lot. A whole fucking lot. But it doesn’t change anything. I still—” The words get caught in his throat, along with some ball of emotion that won’t let anything else come out.

Patrick kisses him again, and says it before he can. “I love you,” he says, and he trembles when he says it, because it throws everything into sharp focus, just what they’re doing, and what they have between them.

“I love you, too.” His heart is pounding in his chest. He’s never said the words to anyone besides his family. He never thought he’d be saying the words to another man. But God, he is, and he means it, absolutely. “Patrick.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go to bed.”

Patrick runs a hand down his front, and hooks two fingers into the waistband of his jeans. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says, and Jonny smiles, rolling his eyes, before following Patrick into the other room.

 

 

**_Nürburg, Germany; 1976_ **

Thunder crackles overhead again, sparking a fresh wave of sighs.

Jonny and his team, as well as most of the other drivers, have been in Germany for a few days now, but it’s been raining steadily the entire time. The weather hasn’t been this bad in ages, not since Jonny can remember first racing here, and he’s not feeling good about it, as he looks out towards the rapidly graying skies.

If it continues to rain like this—he doesn’t want to think about how difficult—how dangerous, the race will be be.

 _The Green Hell._ Jonny’s the only person to have lapped the full 14.189 miles of the Nordschleife in under 7 minutes. He knows this track well, knows every single bump and modification done to it over the years. That’s why it worries him that they’ll be going out there in the rain, in conditions similar to what he’s been seeing over the past few days.

They shouldn’t be racing.

Not everyone agrees with him, though.

“Look,” Jonny tells the room during the drivers’ association meeting that weekend, making sure that everyone can hear him loud and clear and understand why he’s saying this, “many of you have raced here before. You know how some parts of the circuit can stay wet even when others dry up. Going out there would honestly just be a bad idea. I propose we forgo this race. Just remove it from the calendar this season. It’s not worth it.”

There’s an almost immediate outcry from some of the more outspoken drivers. Even one or two of the usually quieter guys have found their voices amidst the furore.

Across the room, Patrick stares at him like he’s crazy. Jonny knows he wouldn’t be happy at all—Patrick’s the kind who’ll go out there and take every risk possible for the greatest outcome he can trade them for, and if it means driving in difficult conditions in the aftermath of a thunderstorm, then, so be it.

“You just want to secure your lead in the championship, don’t you?” one of the other drivers accuses Jonny, and that sparks a whole new debate.

“It’s not because of that at all,” Jonny insists. “And it’s only one race.”

“Well, some of us actually need those points from this one race,” comes Patrick’s voice, a little more snappish than he’d expected, cutting through the others, and that garners a few agreements.

Fucking Christ. Patrick is being unbelievably stubborn about this again.

“What’s more important, championship points or your life?”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not playing catch-up with the rest of the pack!”

“Okay, okay, gentlemen.” The FIA representative for the meeting looks hassled. “Settle down. We will have a vote. Those who wish to cancel the race, raise your hands.”

Jonny’s hand goes up, and after a beat or two, about half the room’s hands go up as well.

There’s a pause where the representative counts them. “And those who wish to proceed?”

Hands go up. Patrick won’t meet Jonny’s eyes as he puts his hand up too.

“The vote is by 1.” The representative takes a moment to jot the result down. “We will proceed with the race. Meeting dismissed.”

Jonny feels like he’s been punched in the gut. A single vote.

He’s leaving the room when a hand grabs his elbow, and tugs him into the connecting corridor, away from the exit. Patrick drops his arm once they’re safely out of hearing of the other drivers, and he hisses, “What the fuck, Jonny? I thought you said you wouldn’t do this shit. Wanting to cancel the race? That’s real low.”

“The risk—”

“I know the risk. We’re racing drivers!” Patrick’s eyes are wide. “We’ve had this conversation before, Jonny. It’s dangerous, but _that’s what we do._ Racing isn’t easy, racing isn’t simple, but it’s what we do, and the trade-off is worth it.”

“Not to me,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s shaking his head. “Not to me, Pat—I don’t want to see anyone hurt.”

“If they get hurt, it’s on them,” Patrick says, all fiery determination that Jonny still thinks is misplaced and naive. “They know what they’re getting into. I know what I’m getting into. Don’t tell me that I can’t go out there just because there’s a bit of rain on the track.”

Watching Patrick storm off is like _déjà vu._ But this time, Jonny knows Patrick won’t stay angry for long. He’ll see that Jonny’s right about this.

 

 

The track is damp, but drying. Exactly the way Jonny predicted it’d be.

He still lines his car up on the track anyway, right next to Patrick. They’d locked out the front row again, both of them on the rain tires.

The checkered flag falls, and the race is on.

Jonny ends up nearly stalling on the start, experiencing too much wheelspin to get off the line properly, and Hossa zooms past him and Patrick, perfectly executing another one of his flawless start procedures.

He swears as he falls back to tenth position, cars zipping around him like nothing. “Fuck, come on,” he tells himself, putting his car in between a Shadow and a Ligier,

It’s one of the most horrible first laps he’s ever driven. He squeezes past the Ligier, but can’t catch the Shadow for another four corners, and a Surtees comes close to shunting the both of them off when it attempts to overtake them on the long straight.

He knows he has to catch Hossa who’s still in first, knows that almost the entire grid will be switching to slick tires the second they close in on the pits, and Jonny’s got to do the same if he doesn’t want to fall embarrassingly far back on the grid.

“Come on, come on,” Jonny’s calling to his team when he comes in, “they’re pulling away!”

They get the slicks on quick, and Jonny’s off immediately, managing to get in a few overtakes to catch back up to sixth place, still behind his team-mate and his rival.

He pushes hard. He needs this race. He needs to catch back up. He needs—

Something snaps.

Jonny feels it, rather than hears it, as he’s about to take the left-hand corner of Bergwerk.

The car’s rear jerks to the side violently, and Jonny throws the car into the other direction as hard as he can, attempting to make a correction, but that part of the track is still wet, and his tires don’t have the grip that he needs.

He braces for impact as the Ferrari swings into the metal barrier, and he shuts his eyes when the car slams hard against it, rocking his entire body and throwing his helmet off his head. Only the seatbelts keep him in as it catapults back out onto the track.

Something in the engine ignites when it goes flying, and the entire car goes up in flames.

It doesn’t register for a moment, because Jonny’s still reeling from the first impact, but when the fire sweeps towards the inside of the car, everything starts to burn, hot and painful and heavy.

Jonny can’t breathe, can’t make his limbs move to get himself out of the car, and he can’t see anything through the cloud of smoke that’s rising up from the car, and from around him. _Oh God,_ he thinks in a moment of strange clarity, _I’m on fire._

The car finally stops spinning, but Jonny’s thrown forward again when something else slams into the side of his car, causing the fire to grow even bigger.

Jonny can’t get out, _he can’t get out_ —the pain is blinding and white-hot, but he’s still conscious enough to hear the sound of panicked voices and cars around him. He wants to scream, but the only sound he can make is a groan, asking for someone, anyone, to come get him, _please, God,_ he can’t move, he can’t get out, he needs to get out, _it hurts_ —

He feels hands removing his seatbelts, and the sound of a fire extinguisher going off, and hands pulling him out of the car, and he realizes he’s out when the heat subsides. The pain doesn’t, though, and he can’t open his eyes. He can’t get up. Someone puts his head down on something soft, and they’re saying, “You’re out, Jonny, you’re alive, you’re out.”

He knows that voice; even through the fog of pain, it cuts clearly through. “Max,” he says, or attempts to say, “where’s—? How—” He swallows, even though it feels like he’s swallowing sand, and he says, “Pat, tell Pat—I—”

“No, Jonny, you’re gonna be fine, and whatever it is you’re gonna say, you say it to Kane yourself, you got that?”

It’s getting hard to keep talking. Jonny gives up, exhaling hard through his nose. “S’rry.”

“Jonny,” Pacioretty is saying, sounding stricken, “fuck, Jonny, stay awake. Stay awake. Jonny!”

Jonny’s eyes are already closed.

He slips away into the dark, letting go of the pain.

 

 

**_Ludwigshafen, Germany; 1976_ **

He drifts in and out of consciousness.

The first time he wakes, the pain is so excruciating across his face that he passes right back out. The second time, he realizes that he’s in a hospital, when a nurse leans over him and speaks to him in German, something soothing. The third time, he blinks blearily and wakes to see a priest by his bedside, reading from a Holy Book.

And the fourth time?

The fourth time, he wakes up to a dry, swollen throat and a brutal ache across his face, arms and shoulders that makes him think of being scalded by hot water, but continuously. There are thick, heavy bandages all over him; he can feel them wrapped securely around the side of his head, as well as his arms.

He inhales, a shattered, hoarse sound that’s louder than he thought would be, and Patrick wrenches upright immediately, the shock of being abruptly woken up quickly disappearing when he sees Jonny looking at him through half-lidded eyes, under the bandage.

“Jonny— _Jonny,_ fuck, you’re awake, oh God,” Patrick whispers, and he scrambles out of the chair he’d been sleeping in to crouch beside the cot. He reaches over to touch Jonny, but hesitates, eyes sweeping over Jonny’s bandaged arms, and his face. “Oh God,” Patrick repeats, eyes and voice watery, and he curls a single finger over Jonny’s own, so gentle that Jonny almost doesn’t feel it. “I’m so sorry—I never would’ve—I thought it would be fine, I thought if anything it wouldn’t be y—and, fuck, Jonny, I thought you were dead.”

Jonny can’t say anything because it hurts far too much, but even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to say anything other than _I’m so glad you’re here._

But Patrick’s crying, relief and gratefulness in every shuddery inhale he takes, and his words, “You’re still here. You’re still here.”

Jonny moves his fingers, just enough that they curl around Patrick’s, as if to say, _yeah, I am. I am._

He falls asleep again soon after, no longer to nightmares of being trapped in the car, but to the warmth of Patrick’s hand in his.

 

 

Jonny finds out the next time he wakes up that he’d been asleep for three days, and that they had to graft skin from elsewhere on his body onto his face, which is why he has to wear the dressings for another two weeks.

The doctor is a kind woman with a heavy accent, but she speaks patiently and slowly so that Jonny can follow every word. “You are very lucky,” she tells him as she’s looking at his chart. Patrick’s standing in the corner, watching like a hawk. “Any longer and you may not have survived. There will be a dressing change every day. You will be required to begin physical therapy in one week’s time.”

“Alright,” Jonny says, finally able to use his voice, though it’s still rough. “Is… is it bad?”

He hadn’t asked any of the nurses who’d come in, and neither had he asked Patrick. Jonny has never paid particularly care to what he looks like, but—he’s afraid. Of course he’s afraid. He must look completely different now, considering the level of trauma to his face.

He’ll probably never look the same again.

“It is…” The doctor pauses, then says delicately, “not good. But it will be easier when you are older, yes? The scars will fade some. And your young man has not yet left you. I think that says many things.”

Patrick’s eyes snap up as the doctor looks over at him, and he flushes. “I—”

“I have friends who live like you as well.” The doctor smiles, and it’s much more gracious than Jonny could’ve imagined. “You are lucky, Mr. Toews,” she tells him again, motioning towards Patrick, “he has stayed here as long as you have been here. Very loyal.”

Jonny meets Patrick’s eyes, and he attempts a smile, as much as his face will allow him. “I am quite lucky,” Jonny says, and Patrick smiles back, no longer worried about the doctor having discovered them.

Once she’s left them, Patrick comes over to stand by the bed. “I didn’t think I was bein’ that obvious,” Patrick says, “’sides the fact that I basically begged the nurses to let me into your room even though I’m not family. Think I mighta even cried a little.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” Jonny reaches for Patrick’s hand again, and Patrick lets him take it. He’s regained a bit of strength since he’d properly woken up, and now, he squeezes Patrick’s hand to remind himself that yes, he really is here, and so is Patrick.

Patrick, who apparently hasn’t left his side in four days. “You haven’t rested,” Jonny says quietly, noting how pale and unkempt Patrick looks. “Please. Pat.”

“I want—I wanna make sure that you’re alright,” Patrick says, running his thumb over Jonny’s knuckles. “I can’t do that if m’not in the room, Jonny.”

“You still need rest.”

Patrick frowns worriedly. “I’ll get a room somewhere nearby. But not until your guys come by.”

“Promise?” Jonny asks, already feeling like he’d quite like to go back to sleep now, the heavy-duty drugs working their way through his system quickly.

“Promise,” Patrick murmurs, as Jonny fades back into unconsciousness.

 

 

The first time they change the dressings while Jonny’s awake, it’s hell. It’s absolute hell.

It feels like they’re peeling the skin right off his face with each bandage they remove. Jonny has to clutch Patrick’s hand so tight that he nearly bruises it. “Almost there,” Patrick tells him, “almost there.”

One of the bandages requires a slightly harder tug to remove. Jonny’s vision swims, and he only realizes he’s whimpering involuntarily when he comes back to himself.

Beside him, Patrick looks like he can’t stand to see Jonny like this, but he holds on.

He holds on.

Jonny exhales noisily, squeezing his eyes shut when they take the final one off, and drop it into a basin along with the rest of the bloody bandages.

“That’s good,” Patrick murmurs, “you’re doin’ so well. Just keep holding my hand, okay?”

“Okay,” Jonny groans, gasping for breath when they start to reapply the dressings. Even the slightest touch feels like a sliver of glass cutting through his nerves. He doesn’t know how he’s going to fare with a helmet—

And that’s when he remembers it, the crash, the slam of his car into the wall, and the taste of fire and smoke in his lungs and in the back of his mouth, and oh God, Jonny can’t breathe—

Patrick squeezes his hand tight, and Jonny inhales sharply.

 

 

It takes time, but Jonny heals.

And in the meanwhile, Patrick has to go.

“No, I don’t,” Patrick says, aghast. “Jonny, I can’t leave—”

“You need to race,” Jonny says, “you can’t stay here and not go. Your team’s depending on you, and you’ve still got a chance at the title.”

“Fuck the title, Jonny.” Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t have to go.”

“You do,” Jonny insists, curling his fingers into the sheets. “You have to go out there and keep going, because how else am I going to tell myself that I need to get better and get back out there? You’re the only one. I need you to be out there, Pat.”

 _I need you to do this for me,_ Pat, is what he’s saying.

Otherwise—there’s nothing for him to come back, for. And if he can’t convince himself to get back into a car, then what else can he do?

Patrick doesn’t look convinced, but he acquiesces in the end. “For you,” he whispers, and he kisses Jonny, fingers gentle as they skim along the unscathed skin of his jaw, “okay. Okay, Jonny. I’ll go. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Good,” Jonny says, and he means it.

 

 

The first time he sees what he looks like without most of the bandages, he nearly throws up.

It’s so jarring and so strange to see that Jonny doesn’t believe it’s him, doesn’t believe that this is what he has to live with for the rest of his life.

The burns are angry and red, early scarring raised on his skin and spreading down his neck, along his forehead and across his scalp, where they’d shaved part of his hair off. He hadn’t known, hadn’t been told, but he’d lost part of his right ear, the skin melting in the inferno and causing it to form oddly once he’d been rescued from the fire.

They told him the scars would fade eventually.

The first time Patrick sees what Jonny looks like without the bandages, he just—pauses.

His eyes skirt over Jonny’s injuries like he’s cataloging each one, from top to bottom. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Jonny’s seized with an irrational fear that Patrick will never want to look at him ever again.

But Patrick shifts closer to Jonny, where he’s perched on the edge of the bed, and he tenderly presses his fingertips to Jonny’s face, to where the scars have healed the best, to his jaw, to his lips. “Y’know,” Patrick whispers, “the first time I thought you were really something, you had your helmet on. Couldn’t even see your face. Still thought your racecraft was ridiculous. You were so fast, and I had to try so hard to keep up with you.”

He leans in and presses his lips to Jonny’s cheek, just where the burns ends. “And then, by the time I’d realized I liked you—more than I should’ve, it wasn’t about how you looked, even if that did play a part. What I’m tryin’ to say is—Jonny. I don’t care what you look like. You’re still here. That’s what I care about the most.”

Jonny shudders out a breath. “Patrick,” he says, overwhelmed by feeling.

“Yeah, Jonny.” Patrick just smiles. “Yeah.”

 

 

**_Monza, Italy; 1976_ **

A year ago, in this very same place, Jonny had been crowned champion of the world.

He’d stood from his car, surrounded by a sea of red and yellow, and had raised his voice to match the voices of all the others, celebrating a long-overdue victory for the one team where a similar sort of loyalty cannot be found anywhere else.

Jonny has memories of Monza that he can never forget.

Today, he’ll have to make some new ones.

The press whisper when he enters the room for the press conference, followed closely behind by his agent, and a FIA Public Relations officer. He ignores all the flashing camera bulbs until he’s sat down in his seat, and then, he looks over at the sea of reporters who have congregated to see for themselves.

“We are here to announce that Jonathan Toews of Scuderia Ferrari will be racing in this weekend’s Italian Grand Prix,” his agent reads from their prepared statement. “He has recovered significantly and is hopeful that he will be able to make a bid. Your questions, please.”

The first question is mundane enough. “How are you feeling, Jonny?”

“Fine.” Jonny answers.

The reporter looks as if he’s waiting for more, but there really isn’t anything else to say.

Jonny glances over at the PR officer, who just tilts his head in resignation. The press will be the press, he supposes.

“Jonny,” calls one of the reporters in the back, “could you detail for us exactly what kind of procedures you underwent, and the expectations for your recovery?”

Jonny answers with as much precision as he can, and he can see the looks on the reporters’ faces as he tells them about the skin grafts, and the smoke removal procedure. That seems to get most of them scribbling away on their notepads, looking mildly horrified.

“Mr. Toews.” One of the Italian reporters stands. “When Ferrari heard about your condition, they immediately hired a replacement driver, Patrice Bergeron.”

Jonny smiles. He knows how bitter he must look. He’s still feeling the ache of Ferrari’s cold efficiency, getting a new driver before the race was even over. “Yes. Before I even reached the hospital.”

But he’s aware they hadn’t put in either of their drivers, Hossa or the newly signed Bergeron, to compete in the race weekend after Germany. They couldn’t. The team engineers hadn’t wanted to do it, had been too shaken up by the crash to even consider fixing up and running a brand new car with a brand new driver. Not right after they had nearly lost one of their own.

“No fucking chance we would’ve,” Seabs told him, when he’d come to see him in the hospital, Duncs and Brandon and Crow and Sharpy and Shaw and the rest of them in tow. “No chance.”

“Good,” Jonny had murmured. “Thank you.”

Jonny doesn’t deserve a team like the one he’s got.

“And isn’t Bergeron driving today, too?”

“Yes. So, I suppose we’ll just have to see where he ends up in the standings, and where I end up in the standings then, eh?”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter through the crowd.

“Patrick Kane and McLaren have caught up quite a fair bit while you were away,” another reporter for an English paper comments.

Jonny just looks at him. “Yes. Is there a question in there?”

“Do you still think you can win?”

He wants to say that he does, with as much confidence he can muster up. He wants to laugh, and look the reporter right in the eyes, and say, _yes, of course I can win. I’m Jonathan Toews. I’m one of the best damn drivers on the grid._

But he’d spent four weeks lying in a hospital bed relearning how to breathe, one week remembering how to move around again, and another week telling himself that he could step back into a car again.

Each inhale had felt like the scrape of a razor-blade across the inside his throat, each step like he had been about to topple over and slam straight down onto the terrazzo flooring. Each time he’d even thought about touching a steering wheel, his chest seized up with a strange, unknown terror and the memory of fire and ash.

He doesn’t know if he can win, and that scares him.

What he does say instead, is, “I wouldn’t count myself out just yet.”

“Has anyone said anything about your face?” someone asks, and the room dips in volume. “How you look now?”

Jonny feels contempt crawl up his throat, telling him all the things to say he’d thought about himself the first time he looked into a mirror after the crash.

He swallows it down, though, and says, “Well, most people haven’t said much. Then again, you don’t really need a face to drive, do you? Just your feet.”

There’s another bout of laughter, but the same journalist says, “I’m being serious. Do you really think any relationship you have now or in the future can survive with the way you look now?”

All laughter falls to a stop. The rest of the press are looking at the guy like he’s absolutely mad. Jonny feels abruptly sick, feeling the weight of the bandage over his head and the pain in his palms as he closes his hands into fists. “And I’m being serious too,” he says, voice deadly low as he leans into the microphone. “Fuck you. The press conference is over.”

 

 

He stands in the garage, ignoring the mass of press circling the area like vultures. Their cameras are going off madly, their questions going unanswered.

Patrick appears at the door. “Jonny,” he says, and the press fall silent, wanting to hear what’s about to go on. They’re probably thinking that it’s the first time that Patrick is seeing Jonny after the crash, the first time that he’s laid eyes on the angry red burns down the side of his face and across his forehead, tucked under a bloody bandage.

They wouldn’t know that Patrick had been the one beside him the entire time in the hospital, only leaving to race because Jonny made him. They wouldn’t know that the reason Patrick is staring at Jonny for so long is because he can’t believe that Jonny is still going to go out there and race.

“Pat,” Jonny responds, and there really isn’t anything else to say to each other. They’ve already said it all, over nights and days spent in the hospital, voices quiet and gentle. “I’ll see you out there.”

“You will.” Patrick reaches over to take Jonny’s hand, giving it a light squeeze, before letting go. “I trust you,” he says, “you’ll do this. You’ve got this, Jonny. You’ve got this.”

 _You’ve got this,_ a memory of Patrick says in Jonny’s head, as Jonny had cried after one particularly lengthy and painful dressing change, after the doctor and nurses had left them, _you’ve got this Jonny, shh, you did so well. You did so well. I love you. You’ve got this, sweetheart, shh. I know it hurts. I know. You’re doing so good._

And Jonny remembers the way Patrick had pressed his lips to the bandage over Jonny’s head, so lightly that Jonny thinks he could’ve dreamt it.

_You’ve got this._

Jonny nods, wishing Patrick knew just how much the words meant to him in this moment. “You too. Tear up that grid, eh?”

Patrick grins, and winks. “Always,” he says.

 

 

He doesn’t quite believe it.

Jonny had stepped into that car, full of fear and uncertainty, at the beginning of the race.

He ends the race in fourth place.

A mere three weeks after he’d nearly crashed to his death, he’s made a comeback no one else could ever have predicted.

He doesn’t place on the podium, but the crowds of Monza, the tifosi, and every other fan, comes streaming down to scream his name, to cheer him on, to tell him that this truly is what he was meant to do.

Jonny gets out of the car, legs shaking, feeling a bit of blood trickle down the side of his face when he pulls his helmet off. He feels like he's about to collapse with the pain and the exhaustion all heaped onto each other, but the exhilaration of knowing that he still can do this has got him standing strong. His team surround him cautiously, carefully, but Seabs reaches over to pull him into a gentle hug, his voice completely at odds with his actions when he yells, “You’re amazing, kid. You’re fucking amazing.”

He searches the crowd for one person, but he can’t see him.

And then, there he is, standing right by the McLaren garage, on top of a step-ladder propped up next to the door, waving wildly at Jonny since he can’t get through the mass of people in the area.

He’s smiling, beaming even, as he mouths exaggeratedly, so that Jonny can tell what he’s saying, ‘You did it, Jonny. You did it.’

 

 

**_Winnipeg, Canada; 1976_ **

It feels different, this time.

Like clockwork, the circus returns once a year, and Jonny along with it. They race in Ontario, but despite the fact that Jonny’d spent some of his formative years driving here, it still doesn’t quite feel like home, or the familiarity that he longs for when he thinks about his family, his old street, and the time he spent there before he left.

But now, coming back to Canada, something feels strange.

Maybe it’s because it’ll be the first time he’s home since the accident. It’s always felt important for him to do well here, in his home race, but this weekend, it feels different.

Maybe, it’s because he’ll be seeing his family for the first time in years.

It’s not that he hasn’t had any kind of contact with them at all. He phones his mother every now and then, missing her voice and the way she says his name. He writes to David occasionally, since David’s work takes him travelling often, and he never knows what time is right for the both of them to have a phone conversation that doesn’t last just under five minutes.

It’s been years, though, at least ten years since Jonny saw his parents face-to-face. The last time he went home, he was probably—what, eighteen or nineteen?

And now, they’ll have to see him like this.

He nearly skips out on them, wanting to make his excuses about work and not having the time to go and meet them and it being too far.

Patrick makes him go, though. Patrick gives their hotel room keys in, buys the plane tickets, puts Jonny onto a plane, and when they get to the Winnipeg airport, Patrick loads their bags into a rental, and tells Jonny, “We’ll go in, and say hi, and the second you want to leave, we’ll leave. But you gotta give it a chance first, Jonny.”

He sits silently in the car for most of the way. Patrick fiddles with the radio and the 8 track player multiple times, sings loudly and off-key to most of the songs, and even chatters nonsensically at Jonny, just to distract him from his own thoughts.

When they pull up to Jonny’s parents’ home, Jonny doesn’t unbuckle his seatbelt. “They won’t recognise me,” he says irrationally, and Patrick’s hand falls from the door. “I’m their son, but they won’t know who I am. I’m nothing like what they remember anymore.”

Patrick just covers Jonny’s hand with his. “I know who you are,” Patrick says patiently, “you’re Jonathan Toews. Just you. That’s all you need to be. You don’t have to be somebody you used to be, or anyone you think you have to be, okay? Just you.”

Jonny knocks on the door.

It opens, and it’s not his parents. It’s David, whom Jonny thought wouldn’t be here today, because he hadn’t answered his last letter and Jonny had no idea which state or country David would even be in around this time.

“Jonny,” David says, choked up. He steps over to pull Jonny into a hug, not before running his eyes over Jonny’s injuries, carefully putting his arms around him. Jonny drops his bag and returns the embrace immediately. “Fuck, Jonny, it’s been years!”

“I know,” Jonny says, voice muffled in David’s shoulder, and fuck, David looks so much older now, so much taller, so different compared to the little brother Jonny had left behind. David’s grown into himself, and Jonny doesn’t know what to say anymore. “I know. I’m sorry, Dave. I’m so sorry.”

David shakes his head, and pulls back to take a proper look at Jonny. “I watched that race,” he says, “I watched all of them. I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“Me neither,” Jonny says. “I probably wouldn’t if it hadn’t been for Pat.”

It’s then that David looks over, and his eyes widen when Patrick waves at him, smiling awkwardly. “Oh Jesus, you’re Patrick Kane,” David says, “hey, uh, could you sign my hat later?”

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, sure, buddy. So, should we continue the reunion inside, or?”

They head in, bags in tow, and Jonny’s barely taken two steps in when his mother appears, a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Jonny,” she says, the way she always says his name, consonants soft, and it makes Jonny’s heart ache to hear her say it in person after so long. _“You’re back—oh, you’re home.”_

 _“Maman,”_ Jonny says, and he hugs her too, when she comes. Over her shoulder, he sees his dad, looking overwhelmed watching them hold each other. _“I’m so sorry, I should’ve come home sooner—”_

“Shh,” she says, stroking his hair, and Jonny feels like he’s a child again. “Oh, my boy. It’s okay. You’re here now.”

 _“Papa,”_ Jonny says, once she’s let go of him, and his father’s face scrunches up like he’s in pain, but he’s moving to hug Jonny too. “I’ve missed you all.”

His father holds him by the shoulders, and Jonny can see the moment that his father sees the scars in full view, the half-melted ear, and the way the burns creep down his neck. He knows, they’re horrific, and they’re not anything any parent would want to see on their child.

“You’re so tall now,” is all his father says, and Jonny smiles, feeling teary-eyed. “Where did that small, skinny boy go?”

“He grew up," Jonny says. "I grew up."

They finally notice Patrick hanging back next to David, and Jonny’s mother makes a surprised sound. “Oh, Jonny, you didn’t say that you were bringing someone with you.”

“This is Patrick, _maman,”_ Jonny introduces, and Patrick smiles widely when he shakes their hands. “He’s my—uh.” Jonny glances over at Patrick, heart pounding in his chest. Patrick just looks back at him, chewing on his lip nervously. “My best friend.”

 _My everything,_ he wishes he could say, but his parents share a strange look that Jonny can’t decipher. He thinks he might know, the way parents sometimes do. You think you have a secret, you think you’ve kept something hidden well enough, and parents just undo all of that work in one fell swoop.

They don’t say anything about it, though.

Jonny spends the rest of the time catching up, and asking about relatives, and talking about what had happened and how he’d had to deal with it slowly. He omits some parts, specifically anything making Patrick out to be anything more than just a friend, but the way their gazes keep sliding over to Patrick makes Jonny think that they might have picked something up.

Eventually, David brings it up when they’re outside on the porch. “You and Patrick Kane,” he starts, and Jonny’s blood runs cold. “Listen. You know how stuff gets around. You work in sports, too. My hockey team—we’ve got a couple of kids too, who, you know.” He shrugs. “I know I’m just the equipment manager to them, but I worry about people finding out all the time.”

Jonny finds his words. “How did you know?”

“Didn’t really know. It’s a wild rumour that’s been going around for years. Two F1 drivers in a homosexual relationship, or something like that. I just… never thought it’d be you, until I started to piece things together.”

“Oh,” Jonny says. God, they’re obvious. They’ve always been too obvious for their own good, too reckless. Too wrapped up in each other to see how anyone else sees them. “Shit,” Jonny says, “I’m sorry.”

David blinks. “For what? Jonny, I told you—or, well, I’m trying to tell you now. It’s fine. I’m fine with it. You’re my big brother, Jonny.”

Jonny remains silent for a second. “Our parents,” he starts, “when were were younger, I remember them saying things. About people, people like… me. And I couldn’t stand knowing that if I’d ever said anything, they’d say the same things about me. That they’d think their son was some kind of a deviant, too. So, I left.”

David looks heart-broken. “I wish you never had to leave,” he says, “you know, things have changed a lot. They’re not the same people they were.”

“I know.” Jonny sighs. “I know. I’m just… scared.”

“You don’t have to be anymore.” David pulls him into a one-armed hug, and then says, “We should probably go back in. Dad’s probably halfway through his interrogation session with Patrick now.”

Jonny snorts, recalling the way their father had questioned every single one of their friends whenever they’d come over as if they were little criminals. Patrick’s probably getting the exact same treatment.

Well. Not everything changes. And that’s not always a terrible thing.

 

 

By the end of the trip, Jonny’s promised to come back more often, and phone more often, and not just talk to his mother, but his father, too.

“Soon,” he promises them, as him and Patrick make their way out the door. “I promise.”

His mother nods, smiling. “And bring your… Patrick along with you too, if you’d like.”

Jonny pauses in his steps, and glances back at her.

She just continues, “Whenever you’re ready to be back.”

_Whenever you’re ready to tell us._

Jonny takes a deep breath. “Soon,” he says to that. “Soon.”

 

 

**_Mount Fuji, Japan; 1976_ **

The rain continues to pour mercilessly.

It’s the final race of the season. The championship will be decided on this race, and all Jonny has to do is finish higher than Patrick. He’d known it’d be a challenge, considering that he qualified third while Patrick qualified second, but that had been yesterday, taking the track in the dry.

They couldn’t cancel the race. Not even when some of the drivers protested, recalling the events of the German GP. The rain itself had started in the middle of the GPDA meeting, while the FIA representative had been speaking about the possibility of a weather change.

Jonny had heard the crackle of lightning, the roll of thunder, and had frozen in his seat right there. Around him, the other drivers had only had to take a single look at him, before immediately voicing their disapproval.

They couldn’t cancel it, because the television rights had already been sold by Chief Executive Bettman for far too much money to be taken back, and it was the final race of the season. The championship race. Too much was hanging onto this race for it to not be held.

So, here they are.

They stand across from each other in the pits, knowing exactly what happened the last time it rained this badly, completely aware of how similar the circumstances are.

The choice is Jonny’s, though, and so he makes it.

He pulls his helmet on, and heads off to the grid.

 

 

It doesn’t let up, the rain, not even when the checkered flag comes down for the second-last time this season, and the cars set off in treacherous conditions, all sporting nothing less than rain tires for perhaps the entirety of the race.

Jonny gets a decent start off the line, heading into the Daichi turn. The rain falls into his face, and the water on the track gets kicked right into his view, and it makes him remember Germany all over again.

The same speed, the same feeling of hurtling into a corner and not having the grip to keep the car from aquaplaning right off the black stuff. The same thump in his chest that tells him he needs to go faster to catch up—but this time, there’s something else.

Something that tells him that he shouldn’t be on the track.

Something that asks him, _the fuck are you doing, Jonny? Why are you doing this?_

 _I’m doing this because I want to win the championship,_ he thinks, throttling into the straight after Daichi and getting ready to take the 100R turn.

_What’s more important? The championship—or your life?_

The car skids on a wet patch at that very moment, and Jonny whips the steering back immediately, drifting only a few inches before he returns to his line.

 _The championship,_ the same something repeats, _or Patrick?_

Patrick, who’d watched as death tried to take Jonny away from him multiple times, who’d sat with him and held his hand and told him that he loved him. Patrick, who always comes back, no matter what happens between them, no matter what either of them have said or done to each other. Patrick, whom Jonny wants to wake up next to for the rest of his life.

This race has barely begun, but Jonny’s already made several mistakes into the first few corners, and even along the straights. It bears too much resemblance to Germany for him to ignore, and he can’t—he can’t just keep going when he knows he’ s not performing at his best. He can’t put himself or anyone else at risk by taking a gamble he’s not prepared to take.

Never being able to touch Patrick again. Never being able to kiss him, or to tangle his fingers into his curls and laugh against his neck when Patrick makes a bad joke. Never being able to carve out a space in this life with Patrick right alongside him.

Jonny doesn’t want to lose Patrick.

He doesn’t want Patrick to lose him either.

Jonny calmly drives the car back to the pit-straight, and brings the car in. Seabs rushes over, looking soaked and confused as he asks, “Is something wrong with the car?”

“No,” Jonny tells him, and he turns the engine off.

Seabs just continues to stare at him as the rest of the team come over to ask the same question, but Jonny knows that Seabs will understand.

“I’m sorry,” he says to them, even as he gets out of the car, “I’m sorry, guys. I can’t race.”

“Is it the car? Are you injured?”

“No,” Jonny says, and he pulls his helmet off and unsticks his balaclava from his wet skin and bandages once he’s under the roof of the garage. The pain is ever-present now, but he speaks through it, putting it behind him. “I couldn’t—” he starts, and everyone’s eyes are on him. “I can’t do it. Not again. Not when I know what it’s like.”

Brandon takes his helmet from him, and nods. “We get it, Jonny,” he says quietly, “we do.”

Seabs puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, kid. You did something no one else could possible do, and that’s what matters to us. You came back and fought.” He draws Jonny into a hug, and Jonny breathes out hard, letting Seabs clutch at him tight. Jonny’s not the only one who’s been afraid, he realizes, feeling Seabs shiver in his grasp. “I’m glad you’re here,” Seabs whispers, and he pats Jonny on the back.

“Me too,” Jonny says, and he goes to change out of his clothes before joining the others beside the radio that’s been set next to the door, watching as the rain continues to splatter across Mount Fuji.

 

 

It’s a close battle, but he does it.

Patrick fights tooth-and-nail for that third place position, and when he speeds past the finish line, Jonny can’t help but shout his excitement. It had been a hell of a race, and Jonny’s always loved watching Patrick drive in the final stages of races. He’s determined, he’s quick, and he’s always ready to prove himself.

He does. Patrick Kane wins the 1976 World Championship.

“Next year,” Crow says to the rest of the team, and they all echo the sentiment. Jonny knows they’d written off this year when Jonny had his crash, but when he’d announced his comeback at Monza, they’d put in even more time and effort to get Jonny back in the race. And to be this close, only losing out by a point, when Jonny had missed at least three races?

It speaks volumes about the team, about the car. And Jonny can’t wait to do it for them again, next year.

Outside, the cars are returning to parc fermé, and Jonny stands at the entrance of the garage, watching the crowd swell and cheer in celebration. Patrick scrambles out of his car, drags Sharpy in closer to hear what position he’s come in, and shakes Sharpy a few times as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Sharpy reiterates, yes, he’s just won the championship, and Patrick tackles him, whooping.

Jonny smiles, and lets Patrick have his moment.

 

 

Later, much later into the night, Jonny’s awoken by somebody climbing into the bed behind him. “Pat?” he slurs, and Patrick kisses the back of his neck. “Hey. You’re here.”

“’Course, Jonny.” Patrick tugs at his shoulder, asking him to roll over.

Jonny turns to face him, and he places a hand on Patrick’s face, dimly lit by the moonlight. His smile is brighter than anything else, though. “Congratulations,” Jonny whispers, and he kisses Patrick, letting Patrick run a hand along the inside of his thigh, before it comes up to rest on his bare stomach. "World Champion, huh, Kane?"

“Thanks,” Patrick murmurs. “Finally got you after all, huh, Toews?”

“Finally. You deserved it."

"You would've taken it, though, if you hadn't... if it hadn't happened."

"I know," Jonny says, the reminder of it just making the regret rise in his chest. It's partly why he hadn't stuck around to see the podium celebrations, choosing instead to help pack up, before leaving to the hotel early. He knows he should've stayed, the way Patrick had stayed when he'd had to watch Jonny win the title the year before, but it had been too hard.

It had felt like too much to ask of Jonny, at the time. 

But now, hours later, after letting his thoughts settle and his senses come back to him, the regret has subsided. The anger and frustration and heartache he'd held within himself has been replaced with a quiet sense of calm. Something that feels more like relief.

“Hey.” Patrick rubs at his skin, like he’s itching to just touch Jonny all over. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” And he’s being honest with himself. He is. He’s fine with losing the title this one time, as long as it was to Patrick. He can come back next year, stronger and faster than ever. He’s fine, because he’s alive. He’s fine because he has Patrick. And he doesn’t even have to say any of it, because Patrick understands, and that’s the wonderful part about it. “Yeah. I am.”

Patrick presses another kiss to his mouth, and then to his jaw, and then along his cheek, and then to the ear that's been so badly burnt that Jonny still has the urge to look away every single time he sees it, but Patrick still kisses him like he still thinks Jonny is beautiful, and tells him just as much. 

He tells Jonny just as much, even as he runs his fingers along Jonny's spine, and takes Jonny apart, and puts Jonny back together again.

He tells Jonny just as much, even when they wake in the morning and wash their faces side-by-side in the bathroom, hips bumping as Patrick attempts to smear foam on Jonny, shrieking when Jonny does the same to him.

He tells Jonny just as much for the rest of their days together, until Jonny can finally believe it.

Jonny's full-to-bursting with so many different emotions. So many different things.

The reassurance. The affection. The quiet acceptance.

Jonny is content.

 

 

**_Lisbon, Portugal; October 1984 | Epilogue_ **

He stands on that step one last time, and savours the victory.

Beside him, his young team-mate looks distraught, not even able to enjoy placing on the podium after losing out on the World Championship title to Jonny by a meagre half a point.

“It’ll be yours next year,” Jonny tells Matthews, who just nods. “Don’t give up just yet. It’s only your first real run.” He then offers a handshake to the kid who’d come in third, McDavid. Both of them show a whole lot of promise. Jonny’s looking forward to seeing them race each other even harder in the future.

Jonny’s had years of attempts at the championship, years of failures and wins and mistakes and celebrations. He’s worked his ass off for where he is today, a combination of experience, skill and luck that’s gotten him to this point once more.

A three-time World Champion, Jonathan Toews is, today.

It’s enough for him, now. He holds a press conference the next day and announces that he’s retiring for good this time, not like when he’d left Ferrari in 1977 when the internal politics got to be too much for him.

He’d come back with McLaren this time around to win perhaps the last title he could possibly achieve before the new generation of drivers come in, more suited to the new regulations than he is. He has no regrets now. He’s come back, done it, and now, it’s time to hang up his helmet for real.

The celebrations are loud and raucous in the McLaren garage. They’d built a stunning car this year, dominating the field, and Jonny is grateful to them for giving him the chance.

He’s speaking to one of the team owners when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and when he turns around, Patrick’s there, looking ridiculously happy for him. “Congratulations,” he says, and Jonny can’t help himself; he pulls Patrick in for a hug right then and there, in the middle of the garage.

Patrick practically squeezes him to death, burying his face in Jonny’s shoulder, saying, “M’proud of you. God, you won’t believe how fuckin’ embarrassing I sounded up in the booth when you crossed that line. Pretty sure Pat Foley and Edzo are still laughing at me, wherever they are.”

Jonny laughs, and they pull apart. He notices that they’ve gotten some stares, but those in the garage know to just leave them be, by now. Even though Patrick retired in 1979 after witnessing one too many racing incidents causing the deaths of people he’d been close to, he’s always been welcome in the McLaren garage, even still working with some of their sponsors, too.

That year had been a difficult one for the both of them, he recalls. Both of them had decided to leave F1 at the same time, but they’d been going in different directions; Jonny had started a business, and had to be away for a lot of the time, and Patrick just wanted to go back home to the States for a while, wanting to forget his grief.

They’d sorted themselves out soon enough. It was never easy, but they had enough experience dealing with it already. They knew how to work things through by now.

Since then, Patrick’s been doing commentary for American and English broadcasts, and it suits him, though sometimes, he does still get complaints about the things he says on live television. “Did you swear on broadcast again?”

Patrick just ducks his head, looking contrite. “Eddie grabbed the microphone from me before I could,” he admits, and Jonny just laughs again, making a mental reminder to catch the race highlights again later, just to hear Patrick’s voice as he announces Jonny’s victory.

They’re interrupted by one of the PR officers asking if she could get a photograph of the entire team in front of the cars.

Patrick hastily tries to shuffle away, but Jonny just hooks two fingers into his collar and tugs him over. Brandon, who’d joined up with McLaren the year after Jonny left Ferrari, pulls Patrick in to stand next to him. “No escape,” Jonny tells Patrick, who just rolls his eyes.

They take the photo, all smiling widely, holding up their podium trophies and the pit-boards that say **‘TOEWS P2 | WORLD CHAMPION’** and **‘MATTHEWS P1 | PORTUGAL’** and bits and bobs from around the garage that have survived the season (Jonny helpfully pretends to not notice two of the junior engineers, Hartman and Hinostroza, attempting to hold up either end of Jonny’s wrecked rear wing from the last race in the back of the group).

“Smile!” goes the PR officer. _Click,_ goes the camera.

The photograph goes up on the wall of photos—not the one in Patrick’s London flat, but the one in their home, the one tucked away in the English countryside that Patrick had bought after selling the ridiculous complex he’d purchased in Monaco several years ago.

(“Is this you settling?” Jonny had asked, looking across the wide, open garden. Exactly the kind of thing Jonny had always wanted in a house. Patrick had known that, Jonny knows he had. “Buying a house with a white picket fence?”

“Okay,” Patrick had said slowly, after taking another look around, “I’ll admit, I did like the fence—but!” He’d closed the gate behind them, taken Jonny’s face in his hands carefully and lovingly, the way he always did, before saying, so genuinely that Jonny had hurt, “It’s not settling if you’re my first choice, Jonny.”

“Okay, Pat.” Jonny had kissed him, right there in the garden that Patrick had given him. “Okay.”

He understood.)

It goes up on the wall right beside a million other photos from over the years: from their rookie years in F2 to their championship years in F1, to prize-giving ceremonies and team celebrations. It’s photographs of family, both of theirs, not just Patrick’s anymore; their teams are equally represented in pictures as well. Some of them have been Jonny’s family for years.

There are mundane things, too: Patrick posing with cars, blurry photos of the budgies, Jonny’s head poking out of the ocean, waving to Patrick who’d been taking photos from the beach, and one memorable photograph in particular where Patrick and Shawsy had gotten smashed one night back in 1978 and burnt the BRM rug from Patrick’s flat—the photograph is of the carpet on fire outside in an alley, and the two of them solemnly toasting the fire.

Patrick had cried the next morning (“I did not, fuck you!”). He loved that stupid rug.

Jonny ended up getting him another, just as ugly as the first.

His favourite photos still remain the ones in the middle. They’d traveled with Patrick when they’d moved in: the Circuit d’Albi one, the one from the bar, and one more, where Patrick and Jonny are standing together on track, just talking, taken sometime in 1977 or 1978.

They’re both wearing their racing overalls in it, and Jonny’s motioning about something, while Patrick listens, sucking at one end of his sunglasses absently, but of the three, it’s the only one that’s post-crash. Every bit of Jonny’s scars can be seen in the photo, even the one disfigured ear.

He still likes it, not because of anything else, but because the way Patrick looked at him in that photograph is exactly the same way he’d looked at Jonny in the photo of them in the bar, from years ago.

Patrick still looks at him the same way, even now.

They’ve still retained their own separate places, to avoid too many questions, but Jonny’s sure that it’s an open secret in the paddock, at this point. He’s grateful that nobody has ever said anything, but after this year, he’s quite sure that they’ll both fade into irrelevancy as younger drivers come along. No one will need to bother them, or bother about them.

They’ve already got this. It’s more than enough.

The season wraps up in Estoril, and Jonny decides that he’s going to celebrate the first day of his retirement with a road-trip.

“It’s gonna take us two years to get back,” Patrick’s grumbling as they get into the car, “knowing the way you drive.”

“Shut up, you’ll get your turn.”

“Knowing you, that’ll be next week, when we’re busy swimming across the Tagus because the car couldn’t handle it anymore.”

Jonny ignores him, and they set off.

It’s pretty peaceful for some time. Jonny likes the Portuguese scenery, and he likes the winding roads that take them everywhere and anywhere. It’s even better to know that there’s nothing rushing him now. He’s got nowhere to go. Nowhere to be.

He can just—be.

They can just be.

“Hey, Jonny?”

“Yeah, Pat?”

“Let’s run away together,” Patrick says, completely out of left field, “just you and me. Away from everyone. We’ll go live in a cabin up in a mountain somewhere. I’ve kinda always liked Bathurst, y’know. Or by a lake. God, but you’d just fish all the time—scratch that. We’ll travel everywhere and go anywhere we want and drive forever and never stop.”

To anyone else, it would just sound like rambling. Nonsensical statements, just whimsy and a little bit of fancy, the way people are used to hearing Patrick when he’d been commentating on a particularly boring race, or holding a conversation he doesn’t really know how to continue, or trying to fill up silence when there shouldn’t be any.

But, Jonny catches the warmth blended in with the nervous energy in his voice, and he knows it’s more than Patrick-speak, more than just a conversational placeholder, more than casual.

“We don’t have to,” Jonny replies simply, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the road when he reaches over to curl his fingers over Patrick’s hand momentarily, and adds, softer, “you ran away with me the first time we met, anyway. These days, all I’m trying to do is keep up.”

There’s a quiet sound, and Jonny glances over to see a small smile scrawled across Patrick’s face, a little pink-cheeked, a little pleased. Jonny squeezes Patrick’s hand once, and then returns it to the gear-shift.

“You’re such a goddamn chump, y’know that, Jonathan Toews?” The words are teasing, but they exude fondness in a way that makes Jonny want to pull over and press the tips of his fingers to Patrick’s face and count and kiss each and every little freckle he’s been gifted by the sun over the years, and thumb over the swell of his lower lip, and taste the sunshine on his tongue and across the expanse of his skin.

“Takes one to know one,” Jonny answers, and Patrick’s smile turns into a grin, bright and brilliant and blinding. “Chump.”

“Hey.” Patrick leans over the arm-rest and presses a sloppy kiss to the sloping curve of Jonny’s neck, pulling back as he murmurs, “Your chump, though. You’re stuck with me for life, don’tcha know.”

 _I’m yours,_ he means, the words going unsaid, _yours forever, Jonny-boy._

And then, unfortunately, Patrick goes, “So, do we honestly gotta go over this again? Today’s headline: Three-time World Champion Jonathan Toews is the slowest fuckin’ road driver in the world. In other news: the sky is blue. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m still just sitting here and taking this—”

 _Crisse._ Every single time. Jonny’s already rolling his eyes halfway through Patrick’s dramatics, the words already fading past his concentration. He shakes his head, shifts gears, and slams his foot down on the accelerator, cutting Patrick off when the engine roars.

Patrick whoops, and sticks his head out of the window to feel the rush of air against his face. He’s laughing, wild and free. It reminds Jonny of the first time he’d pushed Jonny to drive for something—someone—other than himself for once. It’s the same feeling all over again.

Jonny leans back, tips his cap to the side, and smiles.

The wind carries their voices for miles.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1s9n4CSct4Y).


End file.
